The great debate continues over Flaco the eagle-owl spotted recently flying around our home on New York’s Upper West Side, a year after he got loose from the Central Park Zoo: should he continue to roam the city freely, feeding on rats, or should he be put back in captivity for his own welfare?
He’s a big bird, six-foot wingspan, bright orange eyes, and he’s gained a considerable fan base, most of whom are rooting for him to be free. Some renowned owlologists, however, feel the bird is in danger, primarily from rat poison but also from vehicular birdicide, and needs to be rescued from his urban habitat.
Apparently Flaco is roaming the city widely, in search of a mate, which he is extremely unlikely to find in Manhattan, even if he turns out to be gay. There was a female eagle-owl, Gladys, at a zoo in Minnesota but she escaped and was run over by a truck. Eurasian eagle-owls (Bubo bubo) are found in Russia and Asia, not migratory to a great extent; Flaco was hatched at a bird centre in North Carolina 14 years ago. Life expectancy is 20 years but eagle-owls can live much longer in captivity, 30, perhaps more, and there’s the question: a short life of adventure or a long, pleasant life in captivity.
I voted for captivity 30 years ago when I met my Gladys and I’m quite happy with it, so I vote for female eagle-owls, Flo, Mavis, Delores, Maureen, to be flown in from Asia and tethered in the Park where Flaco can spot them, and when he dives in to select a mate, the orni-cops can jump in and seize him in flagrante delicto.
The Timespublished a video of Flaco, the day after his escape, huddled by Fifth Avenue, freaked out by the P.D. lights flashing and the zoo people hovering, looking at a small cage set on the sidewalk with a dead rat inside it, door open, beckoning, but Flaco declined to be trapped. He took off, figured out how to hunt, found good perches and safe corners to sleep in, and became a New York celebrity. New Yorkers have a romantic streak that admires the vagabond adventurer and the rebel. I got over that romantic streak when I saw dozens of adventurous heroes die in middle age from drugs and alcohol, bad habits, and invincible stupidity.
I’ve now been free of my Gladys for several weeks and I admit that freedom has its benefits. Nobody has said to me, “You’re spilling that coffee” or “You missed the toilet again” or “Turn down the flame, you’re spattering grease all over the kitchen” or “Don’t put so much detergent in the washer, you’ll have soap flowing all over the floor” but on the other hand, had she been here, she’d have told me, “Wear a mask when you’re in a crowd of people, there’s a terrible bug going around” and I might’ve done it but instead I went out, a free man, and freely inhaled viral droplets, and caught influenza B and spent the next ten days as a man of 98, a prisoner in a gulag of self-inflicted misery.
I miss her. I miss her casual hand on my shoulder in passing that says so much. I can put my hand on my shoulder but not in passing and it isn’t the same. We need to take care of each other. I need my editors and my colleagues to do the heavy lifting so I can have fun at work. My Gladys loves her family and her fellow string players in the orchestra and especially her Estonian stand partner. In a few days I’ll go to Florida and sing Van Morrison and Greg Brown and Iris DeMent in duet with Aoife and Christine. An old friend of mine is recovering from spinal fusion surgery at a hospital in Minnesota, in the ICU under the watchful care of truly dedicated doctors and nurses. My daughter lives in a tangle of friends and chums and BFFs who all look after each other. Knowing this helps me sleep at night.
We can get along without Wi-Fi and cell phones and streaming video, but we can’t get along without each other. Come back to the zoo, Flaco. You’re a celebrity, people want to look at you, accept your role in the world. You’ll enjoy a long, pleasant life there along with the penguins and the primates. You lunch on one sick rat and you’re a goner and the whole city will go into mourning. Come home.
