One late January day, as I was flakinghay off the truck to the horde of hungry bovines that surrounded and followed me, each cow acting as though she herself was entitled to every tiny stem and leaf, a strange dark figure on the fenceline a hundred yards in the distance caught my eye. I could detect movement, but whatever it was never strayed from its position. My first thought was that it must be a newborn calf, but since it was still several weeks before the babies were supposed to start arriving, I brushed that notion aside.
I remained focused on the business at hand but kept an eye on whatever it was in the distance. The closer I got, the more apparent it was that the unidentified-non-flying object was indeed a large bird of some sort. This realization did nothing to calm my nerves because, in my world, the presence of buzzards or crows nearly always accompanies a dead piece of livestock. But even at a distance, this bird didn’t exude the certain repugnance that always seems to keep company with birds of the carrion sort. I presently concluded that this must be an eagle. I could see he didn’t seem to be eating anything, so why he was just biding his time at the foot of the fence was a mystery.
When I finished pitching off the last flake of hay from the truck, I warily made my way up to the regal bird of prey, all the while praying that he wouldn’t transform into a maniacal screaming eagle upon my arrival. When I got to within about a foot of the bird, he raised his wings and hissed at me, and as he did so, I could see that he’d somehow broken a wing. I don’t know what he did to incur the injury. Maybe he hit the fence in pursuit of one of the dozens of pheasants that liked to hang around the feed grounds. At any rate, his soaring days had come to an abrupt halt.
Realizing the significance of my discovery and not really wanting to face any federal wrath for any perceived mistreatment of a protected species and the very symbol of freedom, I called the Idaho Fish and Game Department and shared with them my discovery. Although it was with the haste that one might expect from an official government agency, someone from IDFG finally showed up to retrieve the eagle and take it to where someone with the proper expertise could rehabilitate the magnificent bird. Although the assigned eagle rescuer seemed to have no more idea how to catch an eagle than I did, with some creative hazing in the pickup from my 86-year-old father, the eager but somewhat inept state employee got the critter wrangled and captured. It turned out to be a good ending, and I was proud of my service and that I was able to help one of God’s creatures. It’s good to help when you can.
A few months later, as spring was finally beginning to warm things up, and the almost forgotten presence of the sun was giving people enough confidence in its warmth to venture outside without four layers of coats, I was driving through the metropolis of Burley, Idaho, population 11,000, give or take a few hundred. Now, the residents of my home county, of which Burley is the county seat, may not be the most worldly, but we are still urbane enough to be quite aware of what other parts of the world may be like. Overland Avenue is not Rodeo Drive or Bourbon Street, but we’re grateful the sidewalk in front of the co-op is not lined with crackheads and addicts. While mostly ignored corners of the world like mine are subject to the same vices that plague places like Detroit and Portland, still, the outward flamboyance of some of our shared society’s weirdness is much rarer to see in southern Idaho than it may be in East L.A.
On this particular trip through town, as I was stopped at the stoplight on 16th Street next to the old Masonic lodge and the courthouse, something in the distance caught my eye. Much like the eagle from my experience months earlier, this as-yet-to-be-identified object didn’t quite seem to fit the environment. Unlike the eagle, though, this object’s bright colors would not allow it to be confused with a buzzard. It looked more like a peacock, perhaps. When the light changed and I continued on through town, I was able to clearly see what this colorfully adorned creature was.
It was a jogger. His hair was tied neatly up in a man bun. He was clad in a wildly fluorescent pink tank top, paired with an equally bright pair of safety-vest-green short shorts. He was neither fat nor fit, but his attire would not have made either body type any more appealing to gaze upon. He was “running” with short, awkward steps that accurately exposed his apparent lack of athleticism. Strapped to his wrist was a bright red leash. On the other end of the leash was a neatly coiffed miniature poodle who nonchalantly trotted beside him as he made his way down the street.
I was at once intrigued and horrified. I couldn’t look away. My first instinct was to stop and offer my help, much like I’d done with my eagle friend. But I fear his reaction would have been much like the initial reaction of the eagle to my presence: a hiss accompanied by some form of wing flapping.
I have always maintained that it’s my duty to help those in need whenever I’m able. But I also realize that I can’t help everyone who may need it. I just have to do what I can within my sphere. Still, I hope someday the neon jogger of Burley can somehow find the help he deserves.
He needs to know that when springtime jogging with your poodle in Cassia County, Idaho, a man bun should always be eschewed in favor of a mullet.
