The First Week

So passed the first week.  I would wake up early for some manning time, take weights and hang out in the basement with my new friend.  He would rouse up and preen on my fist while I sat in my grandfathers old Eames chair.  I would try to do a little afternoon manning if my schedule permitted and training and feeding was done at night.

I was pretty impressed with the fact that my eldest took such an early interest in the bird.  She was in the basement constantly with me and even helped me change the paper in the giant hood once.  If you have never experienced this particular joy in life, run don’t walk to your nearest falconer’s house and jump right in.  There is nothing to rival the smell of stool, uric acid, and urates soaked into paper.  Pungent does not describe.  While I was comfortable with my role in the waste management detail (as a father with three kids this was the only job in which I excelled), it was somewhat Challenging to learn how to do this one handed.  I could remove the paper no probs, and clean up that which had gotten into the crevices, but there was no way I could replace the paper with only one hand.  Thank goodness for Jordan those first few days.

As mentioned, I was an accomplished waste management engineer in a former incarnation, but I neglected to consider that some of the immunities I had built up during the years of changing diapers might not transfer to my eldest.  I actually watched her eyebrows curl as the lingering fumes assaulted her while she was replacing the paper.  I thought that she was going to pass out at one point, but she persevered.  I couldn’t decide if I was feeling pride for my daughter’s burgeoning determination, or smugness at the thought of payback for laying down on me some of the most noxious diapers ever to be changed by man.  It actually brought tears to my eyes.  Of course the tears might have been caused by the fumes…

Anyway, the first week was a learning one for both of us, more so for me than the hawk.  I was figuring out how to get him on and off the scales without freaking him out, learning ways to keep him safe when bating, and most importantly to Laura, learning those tell tale signs that suggest a mute in the making.  Nameless was learning to trust me and realize that I was his walking refrigerator and his golden ticket in regards free healthcare, room and board, and job security.  Hell, I almost named him Canada.

In all seriousness, this bird was consistently way ahead in regards to his training.  He actually jumped to the glove on day #2 which was somewhat amazing and by the end of the week, he was flying the full length of the basement with his leash trailing.  He continued to be calm and at peace with me around so after the first few days, I began manning outside with him.  This was a bit stressful for him as his natural instincts would kick in and he would want to seek a higher perch, leading to incessant bating.  I began to consider the name Norman at this time (come on, you got that right?  Norman Bates? Sheesh…).

The biggest concern was his weight.  With my sponsor’s blessing, we decided to go up on this birds weight, contrary to traditional thought.  We believed that the bird was somewhat sick when caught so we put him on a dewormer and followed the weight closely.  Even hooded in a warm safe environment, this bird was swinging 4 ounces of weight a day.  I gradually took him up to over 43 ounces (at full crop) at various times.  I did find that he was at his most responsive under 39 however.   I was amazed at what this bird would eat.  The earlier Denny’s analogy might have been a bit understated.  Mayhap his appetite was more akin to that of a starving cannibal who stumbles across said Denny’s patron on a deserted island.

Anyway, nameless was getting fatter and I was getting a little more comfortable hanging out with him (no one likes too many skinny friends… it makes one look unambitious).  Nothing left to do but press on to the creance...