|
There was a rasping sound then, Dopplering over Doc's yard from east
to west. Doc, without looking up, said, "Morning, Wheezer."
"Didn't catch that, Doc."
"That's ol' Wheezer," Doc said, waving his hand up toward the
heavens. "Didn't you hear him? Mourning dove. Lives here and in the
yards on either side. Something's wrong with his voice."
"Ah," said Steve, the cowboy philosopher. He nodded and tried to
look wise, but only managed a tilt-headed owl look. But at least he
does it well.
Doc sat back and smiled up at Steve. "Ol' Wheeze there, he's been
around for three years I know of. When he flies over, I always say
hello to him. Must be getting old, talking to doves, huh?"
"What's wrong with his voice?" Steve asked.
"I'm no vet," said Doc, "but if you'll go catch him, we can check
him out."
They both laughed.
[to top of second
column] |
"The only reason I know he's a he is because I saw him courting
this cute little lady dove this spring. She thought his raspy ol'
voice was charming and wonderful," Doc said.
"He goes over on Vivian's roof sometimes, and then back over to
Rob's place, but mainly he lives on my roof and in the tree
branches."
Steve owled up his face and was philosophizing real hard, as
anyone could see.
"Whatcha thinkin', Steve?"
"Just occurred to me, Doc," he said. "You've learned a lot about
this bird, and have made him your friend, in a way. And you've been
able to follow his actions and family life and everything. And none
of that would've been possible if ol' Wheezer didn't have a speech
impediment. Without that, he'd be just another bird. Looks like one
time when a handicap made life a bit more interesting."
"It happens that way sometimes," Doc agreed.
[Text from file received from Slim Randles]
Brought to you by the good folks at St. Jude
Children's Research Hospital. Give them a hand at
www.stjude.org. |
