Plucky's Gift

What ever happened to that half-winged mourning dove?

You know I wouldn't leave you hanging if I could help it.

I had this whole post written on a plane. And the Internet swallowed it. The photos stayed but the text disappeared. Never had that happen before. Now I'll probably say something completely different than I did while hurtling over Kansas at sunset. One of the things I like about blogging is that I have no idea what's going to come out when I sit down. I started this one, and what came out was "One Day in Light" (the last post). When I'm blogging, I enter into a conversation with you, and it can go anywhere.

I saw the ghost of Ellen on March 11. I'm at the point where I can recognize certain deer naked eye at rather long distances. I raised the blind in the bedroom and saw Ellen against the west border of the meadow. The camera revealed that it was actually Flag, her daughter. All the little Elleny things in her gestalt at several hundred yards, that added up to Ellen for me, made me smile so big. It was like a visitation from her mama.

 

Nobody would give a passing glance to a small plain doe like Flag, unless they had known her mama, and come to love her so. I grow fonder of Flag every day.

 

I almost never see Flag without Buffy. Doughty little Buffy. I'll always wonder if she was related to Ellen, because they were always together, too, though they didn't get along very well. 

 

I have watched Flag take corn right from under Buffy's nose, and have never seen one iota of aggression between them. That's saying something, because I've seen Buffy fight.

Here's Buffy kissing Flag back in January 2017. Flag was still a little fawn. She'd just lost her mother in November.

Buffy, left, Flag right, today. See how much warmer-toned Buffy's hair is?
Buffy's also got tear tracks from her weepy left eye.

Buffy gave me a good laugh on March 8 when she stamped me. Deer stamp when they see something they don't like. Which would be me, through the window, at my drawing table.

 She stamped me with both front feet!

 

 Come on, Buffy. You know me. Stop punching more holes in my poor mushy lawn.

I do notice a difference in these two (the only ones who come in to clean up the jays' corn) and the other deer at Indigo Hill. Buffy and Flag are much more approachable in the field, more likely to watch me pass at a safe distance than the others, who all bound off. They know the Corn Lady, know my schedule, know my voice. It feels good to be recognized, even if I can't throw my arms around their necks.

Speaking of recognizing...A small gray female mourning dove, the avian equivalent of Flag, came walking in from the direction of the trumpetvine tangle on March 1. 

  

 Nothing to distinguish her on the left side, unless you were to notice the fresh white edging on her secondary wing feathers.

 

But on the right side...oh yes. Hello, Plucky! Look at that regrowth! There's still a lone black primary exposed, one of the two that remained after the hawk attack. But here come the primaries!

Luckily, she gave me a closeup.  It took only two weeks for all those feathers to regenerate. That, to me, is amazing.

In a few more days, she'd be virtually indistinguishable from the other doves.That won't stop me, and hasn't. I'm still looking for a small, grayish dove--probably less than a year old-- with a pale cheek and fresh wing feathers. So far, I haven't seen her again. But I take that to mean that she no longer needs to hide in the vines and gobble down grain at my feeder simply to survive.

 

As is so often the case,  I find myself scrutinizing groups, looking for one special creature. It may seem silly to some, but for me it's time well spent. Looking for Plucky taught me that each mourning dove has a unique spot pattern on its wings. Like this one--likely an immature, who is sprinkled with small dots.

 

And this mature male, with his iridescent neck and large oval spots on his coverts and tertials.

 

 I'd never realized that about mourning doves before Plucky came into my life. And I will recognize her should she appear again, as her wings are very lightly spotted.  And that's something to be able to say, that you could pick one special mourning dove out of a flock. That's the gift of close observation.

When Plucky finally took flight March 1, she corkscrewed as she went, but not nearly as badly as she had before. No longer would she have to walk from the tangle to the feeders and back.

Plucky had gotten her second chance.

I Love a Survivor

I first saw her come walking in with a flock of mourning doves, to the corn and sunflower seed I offer ground-feeders. It was February 15, 2018. For a moment I just stared at her, then I picked up the camera and started shooting. Her left wing was missing perhaps half its secondaries.

 but that was nothing to what I would see next.  Her right wing was practically gone. All the flight feathers save two long primaries had been torn out, some of her back feathers with them.

 I envisioned her struggling beneath a Cooper’s or perhaps a sharp-shinned hawk, held down while her wings were plucked nearly bald. Somehow, she must have struggled free and gotten away. I couldn’t imagine how, unless she hid in dense cover. Even that would be a weak defense against an accipiter; they tend to go in feet first after prey. For all I know, it happened right here, where the little male sharp-shinned hawk who's been hunting the yard this winter likes to hang out.

Particularly sweet that he's perched on the Destroying Angel birdbath my father made out of an old harrowing disc. Howdy DOD!!

Could he have been the one who plucked her? 

Thinking about the pluck shadows of the accipiter kills I've examined, there have usually been lots of wing feathers scattered around. I've always wondered why a hawk would pluck a bird's wings. All the meat is in the breast. Why bother?

After much thought, it occured to me that a small hawk holding prey as large as a mourning dove would do well to denude its wings before going in for the coup de grace. It's analogous to a housecat giving one quick bite to crush the shoulder of a songbird--an instinctive maneuver--almost invariably  the first thing a cat does to a bird it's caught-- that has given me far too many rehab clients who will never fly again. First, remove means of locomotion. Then, go in for the kill. 

Yep, I'm looking at you, crazy little sharpie boy. 

I love you in all your ferocious beauty, but I always heave a sigh of relief when you're done scoping the yard and you whirl off to terrorize somebody else.

I think the hairy woodpecker knows. But she's not talking. 

Well, this time Sharpieboy didn't get a meal. Here she is, still walking around.Somehow, she’d pulled it off. She'd been in the hawk's talons, and she'd struggled free.  Now here she was, trying to survive with half of one wing. She was nervous, her head held high. She dipped her head briefly to take a few grains of corn, then raised it to look for danger. She had to be even more vigilant than her flockmates, to see the predator first. I couldn’t imagine the constant stress she was under.

Inevitably, something frightened the doves and they all took off in a whirl of whistling wings. One remained. She froze, standing as tall as she could. She looked all around with barely perceptible head movements. The flock was long gone, but after checking carefully for danger, she sprang into the air in the direction they’d flown. My jaw dropped as I watched her rise on a steady 45 degree angle, her left wing pumping madly, carrying her up and forward. With the uneven thrust, she rolled hard to the right as she flew. My unbelieving eyes watched as she corrected with a half-roll left. On and on she twisted and corkscrewed until she was out of sight. What a bird. Wow! I wondered if I’d ever see her again.

Two days later, on February 17, she walked into the yard alone, from the direction of the compost heap. Thick tangles of trumpetvine crisscross in a dense lattice perhaps five feet deep.

To my amazement, new pinfeathers had already emerged from the empty feather follicles. Regrowth had started. Certainly, she was no more flightworthy than she'd been two days ago, but she was on her way. 

Another couple of days passed, and I saw her emerge from the trumpetvine tangle. It was February 19. I was moved to see her walking instead of flying. It seemed she'd decided to stay in the dense cover, close to my offerings of corn and seed. Let the flock travel. This bird had decided to lie low. 

She'd set up residence in the safety of the trumpetvine, and was commuting by foot to the cafeteria. And people say mourning doves are dumb.

Will you look at those secondaries! They're not only coming in; the feathers have burst their sheaths, like paintbrush tips! Even having studied the lightning development of baby birds, this seemed extreme for only four days' growth. Holy cow!

 She made her way quickly to the corn and filled her crop. I believe she was eating but once or twice a day, gobbling as much as she could, filling the baglike crop in her chest. The crop is an enlargement of the esophagus that serves as food storage. She could draw on that all day long.

She then gamely walked back into the tangle to digest, rest, and keep growing those feathers. Little thing's misshapen from all the corn she's packed in. Smart, smart, smart. Surviving. Doing what she has to to make it, given the handicap.

I am filled with admiration for this mourning dove. She announced her arrival in the yard on February 19 with a hard landing--a bounce and a full roll before she sprang to her feet and headed for the corn.
I shook my head and chuckled, and decided to call her Plucky.

It was hard to leave this story, this bird, and my watching post for a week to travel to California. I like following individual birds. I hoped hard that I'd be granted the privilege of seeing Plucky grow her wing feathers back and fly right. 

 I do love a survivor. 

Thank you for all your good thoughts and kindness. I have been surfing the invisible wave of your goodwill. :)