Many people dread a
call from their mechanic, since it usually means spending more
money — perhaps the transmission really is shot or a battery has
to be replaced. But recently, after my partner picked up her car, I
received a call from our mechanic about a very different subject.
Our answering machine picked up the call. “Hi Seth.
It’s Jerry. I know you care about birds, and I bet Maria told
you about the owl hanging out in our shop. Why don’t you come
by and see it?” Maria had mentioned the owl, but I was tired
after teaching energetic fourth-and-fifth graders, and I guessed
that the owl was a bird some Harry Potter enthusiast had purchased,
found was too much trouble and released. Unfortunately, this is not
an unusual event.
But curiosity got the better of me, and
I grabbed the phone and got hold of Jerry before he closed. What do
you catch an owl with? I quickly assembled what I thought would be
good owl-catching equipment: a blanket, thick gloves, a yellow
pillowcase and a string tie. It was close to dark when we pulled
into the garage and found Jerry, who pointed to the lip of the
garage door. Sure enough, 12 feet above a dirty white Volvo and
pools of standing oil, stood a small owl.
Though the
light was dim, I immediately realized that this owl was no Harry
Potter pet. It was a small bird with white eye rings and a mottled
brown and white breast. A wave of excitement washed over me as I
realized that the bird was the endangered burrowing owl.
What on earth was a burrowing owl doing in one of the most densely
populated areas of Los Angeles? The last time I saw a burrowing owl
had been on a spring trip to the Kern National Wildlife Refuge in
California’s Central Valley. Maria and I had risen before
dawn, gulped down black coffee at the local Denny’s and drove
to the refuge just as crimson morning light washed over the valley
like a spilled glass of pink grapefruit juice.
We had
taken the refuge’s auto tour and seen numerous birds; then,
just as we were leaving, I noticed a small bird perched atop a
fencepost. “Owl!” I shouted, and Maria slammed on the
brakes. The car skidded to a stop, but the noise spooked the owl,
which flew to a nearby fencepost. The morning light illuminated the
owl like a specimen on a pedestal at a museum. It was a burrowing
owl and rare, now, as its grassland habitat makes way for
development. It watched us with furtive yellow eyes before
spreading her wings and gliding into a small bush.
It’s one thing to observe a burrowing owl at a wildlife
refuge and quite another to see one hanging out between Kountry
Folks Restaurant and Galpin Ford. Jerry mentioned that he’d
first noticed the owl after a truck had come in from Chatsworth, a
community that borders on parkland outside the city. Could the
burrowing owl have hitched a ride?
We decided that the
best thing to do this time of night would be to encourage the owl
to fly out of the garage and hope it found its way to the desert
and scrubland that surrounds the San Fernando Valley. Jerry
attached the pillowcase to a long metal tool and waved it like a
flag near the perched owl.
This worked: The owl spread
its wings and made a pass over the shop’s hydraulic lift
before disappearing into the night sky. I thought I saw the owl
clear the L-shaped auto complex and vanish into the darkness, but I
wasn’t sure. We walked toward some lighted garages nearby and
asked if the mechanics had seen a bird. The guys shook their heads,
more absorbed in a cherry red convertible they were repairing than
the swoop of a small owl.
Did our owl successfully make
its way back to its still remaining habitat on the outskirts of the
San Fernando Valley? We’ll never know. I did learn one
lesson, though: The next time your mechanic calls you, it
isn’t always bad news.
Seth Shteir is a
contributor to Writers on the Range, a service of High Country News
(hcn.org). He is a teacher and conservation chair of the San
Fernando Valley Audubon Society in Los
Angeles.
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