Kessie’s recovery

“As she grew stronger she started to make short flights – a half circuit of the kitchen, then a full one. Flying was hard work; we invariably picked her up from the floor”


Country sight and sounds
John Shelley

FOR two weeks and two days we had kept Kessie the kestrel, long enough for her to recover from whatever misfortune had laid her low. I would like to report that we had grown fond of her, that some unique bond had formed between man and the wild, but Kessie was not that sort of bird. We admired her, it is true, and had been intrigued by her crooked yellow feet and fascinated at her mini cleaver of a bill, but there was to be no affection.
While not forming any kind of relationship with us, Kessie had been extremely mannerly, content to sit quietly on a gloved hand and even submitting to having her head and breast feathers groomed. When she felt we had intruded upon her space a little too much she would turn her head and open her beak with a hiss. Apart from that, she was an unemotional creature, cold and dispassionate.
One day we put her into a steel cage in the back yard, thinking she might enjoy being in the fresh air. At first she seemed content to sit on the low perch we had provided, but an hour later we found her exhausted on the cage floor. Her efforts to escape had left her disheveled, and there were spots of blood on her cere. I felt that if she had such determination to be free then perhaps we should let her go immediately, but as she was still unable to fly more than a few feet and would find it impossible to feed herself, we were reluctant. A wicker basket was procured. Into it she went, and the lid was fastened.
We fed her once a day, with chicken and liver. She showed a distinct preference for the latter, gulping it down in large lumps until she was sated. Even then she would not let go of the remainder, but sat there clutching it tightly with her talons until she had digested some of her meal and a bit more could be squeezed in. If we opened the lid while she was feeding she would spread her wings protectively and give us a fierce glare.
When we let her out for short periods, she took to sitting on the window sill, perching on the back of a clay elephant our son had made at school, to watch the outside world. As she grew stronger she started to make short flights – a half circuit of the kitchen, then a full one. Flying was hard work; we invariably picked her up from the floor and returned her to her favourite perch. When she discovered the lampshade she sat there with the back of her head against the ceiling. It was fun to have visitors, to see how long it took them to notice the slightly built, tawny-orange hawk watching them with a still eye.
Then one morning Kessie decided she had been with us for long enough. She launched herself from the lampshade and crashed headlong into the window glass with such force I was surprised it didn’t crack. Fearing she must have done herself serious harm, we picked her up gently. She looked a little taken aback, and rather dazed, and we put her back into her basket to recover.
When we let her out again she flew immediately to the window, but more steadily, and sat close to it, as if determined to learn more about this strange invisible barrier that kept her prisoner. There were to be no more attacks on the glass, though there was an increased measure of agitation on Kessie’s part, as she clearly longed to be set free.
When the time came we rang the local national school. Would the children be interested in watching the release?
That afternoon we let Kessie go. She sat quietly even when free, just looking and watching. Then she turned her head and lifted her wings. She flew to a cheer, 400 metres to become a speck in an ash tree. We have looked out for her since, but there is no sign of a kestrel with a ragged tail. Wherever she is, we wish her the best of health.