Scrambling

I am absurdly proud of the owlets. One of my favourite moments of the day happens as I approach the shed and whistle. I am greeted with a cacophony of owlets, hissing and scrambling about. They have learnt that my whistling heralds a food drop and their excitement is palpable. Without seeing them I can imagine the hustle and bustle inside both nest boxes as they rush to receive the offerings they have come to anticipate from the parents upon my arrival. As I am only a few yards from the dutch barn box I can hear these owlets too. It is immensely satisfying to know that I am helping them. October has brought with it some wet and dreary weather, terrible conditions for barn owls. I know the owlets are hungry as the parent birds follow me over to the house once more swooping in quickly and deftly for first helpings and are no longer content to wait for me to leave. It is at times like these that I am pleased they are used to taking the extra food. I can increase supplies and hopefully all will be well.

But my pride is also tinged with apprehension as the older owlets in the dutch barn begin to tentatively explore the straw. Initially I was concerned that one had ventured out and got stuck. It was out at the start of the week and by the second night it looked decidedly dejected. I scrambled into the straw with food and dreamt of starved, tatty bundles of feathers, their lives spent before they had even begun. By mid week the rain gave me a comforting clue. A deluge at teatime meant no owls met me in the straw. The rain had kept them in. They must have been sleeping by day in the nest box and were still inside, safe from the inclement conditions. It seemed I was right. The following night two were dancing in the straw. On my approach they put their heads down, held their wings aloft and half ran, half flew across the top of the straw. I pondered how such graceful birds could look so comical.

With my attention held by the older brood and the incessant hissing from the shed reassuring me, I had not worried unduly about the shed brood of five. I knew that it would be unlikely the female would rear them all this late in the year but judging by the noise I was confident they were thriving. On Saturday I walked through with the dog as usual, barely glancing at the shed. It was when I returned that my brother in law found me and told me there was a young owl that needed help.He had left it by the wood pile and when we returned it had decided it didn't want rescuing and promptly darted underneath the stack. I laid awkwardly in the narrow space and shone my phone torch along. Sure enough there it sat, hunched and dejected.

I am terrible at finding practical solutions but I could see it was still far too young to be out and I determined that I wasn't leaving until it was back in the nest box. I found a piece of wood and put it behind the baby so that it shuffled back to the end where we intended to grab it, but the owlet had other ideas. Yes it headed towards the end but then stood resolutely still. It knew its welcome party were close. Rob fetched me first a net to put over it and then a spade to put under it. Neither worked. but then the owl decided to play dead.  It slumped onto its side in the hope that we would lose interest and leave it alone. This is a great survival tactic but I had seen it too many times. This made things easier. I borrowed some gloves and laid flat in the dirt. At this angle I could just reach one of the owlets outstretched talons. Very gently I pulled it towards me before holding it close to my chest.

Success! I was hauled unceremoniously to my feet and brushed down. My clothes were filthy and my glasses were tangled in my hair but none of it mattered, the owlet was safe. A couple who had called for straw watched the rescue and were quite fascinated. I did my best to persuade them to look into an owl box for themselves before venturing up the ladder. Rob insisted that I was to finish the rescue and so I braved the extremely wobbly ladder. I hate heights. I am not physically adept. So with one hand clutching the owlet I slowly and painfully made my way up to the nest box one rung at a time. Each step seemed to make the ladder wobble ever more precariously and my knees had unhelpfully turned to jelly too. As I approached the box I decided not to look down and focused on the ball of fluff and feathers in my hand. Very tentatively I laid it on the nest box porch. It predictable played dead. A gentle prod from me sent it scrambling back in to its family. A job well done.

Of course afterwards are all the "What could have beens."   What if we hadn't seen it? What if it had stayed in the shed? What if it had been predated? But you can make yourself miserable with "What could have been." I was pleased to realise later that day that it was unringed. This meant it was one of the two youngest of the brood that were too young to ring two weeks ago. I imagined them out of the nest box awaiting mum's return. An overenthusiastic surge from the older owlets would have been enough to send this youngster flying. Hopefully amid the scrambling it will now stay safe. As usual I will be watching closely.