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Humor
That Time I Tried To Catch A Hawk
Godspeed, Mr. Hawk, wherever you may be.
I like animals a lot. Maybe too much.
Several times last month I darted into the road to rescue a giant leopard moth caterpillar that was inching its way across the pavement.
Why, fuzzy worm, why?
I will pick up a toad without hesitation to save it from the lawnmower, and I’ve been known to chauffeur snakes to a different locale (the shrubbery outside the bank in Westfield Center.)
I once captured a chipmunk in a cat carrier and drove him to my mom’s house. This was after several hours of chipmunk parkour that ended in my bathroom. Why I felt the need to ostracize him as part of his punishment, I don’t know.
So when I saw the hawk with an injured wing flapping around in my backyard, of course I wanted to help it.
What you don’t really appreciate when you see a hawk soaring gracefully through the air is that it’s the size of a six-year-old child. A six-year-old child with knives strapped to their feet.
I don’t know what kind of hawk it was. Growing up, we just called them chicken hawks because they killed our chickens. Hence the name.
