Sarvey Wildlife Center

Sweet Girl
by Amber Chenoweth and Aaron Chenoweth

November had come again, and with it came a season of change. The days were colder, shorter, and subdued by overcast skies and constant rain. The nights were even colder, longer, darker, and wetter. But regardless of the season’s weather, the change from day to night is a signal for many workers to rush home and for some wildlife to begin their work of hunting for food. And in this change of shifts, these two worlds collided on one of these gloomy autumn nights. As the Crews family were making their way home for the evening, driving down a road they traveled every evening for years, there was an unexpected thud paired with a brief obstruction of feathers spread across the windshield. The driver, Jim, pulled over and discovered that what he had just struck was an owl, probably attracted to their headlights while hunting. He picked up the lifeless bird and rushed it to Sarvey Wildlife Center, where she was diagnosed with head trauma, blindness in one eye, and partial blindness in the other. The outlook for her survival was grim. I was making my rounds at Sarvey as I did each Thursday. Walking past a cage I caught a glimpse of a pair of large, dark eyes that stopped me dead in my tracks. They belonged to a barred owl that was limp in its cage. For a moment, these eyes seemed to be desperately searching for relief. This creature was hurt, lost, and confused about where she was. I felt my heart pull tight, and I stopped dead in my tracks. After letting my guard down for a few seconds, I remembered thinking "but all the animals probably feel that way," and I broke away from the bird’s gaze. I went on about my way to finish my tasks. Back then, I hoped I wouldn't have to handle anything larger than a baby squirrel. I was a skittish volunteer and perfectly content to clean anything rather than chance being bit. But the nagging thought of the look in the owl's eyes drew me back to her cage several times throughout the day. Our meeting was something out of the ordinary confrontation I had experienced with animals that were brought to Sarvey with some form of injury. This owl seemed to break through some kind of barrier. I went on about my routine, trying to focus on what I needed to accomplish before my shift was over. As I started my drive home from the Center, a place where I had found an opportunity to make a difference and possibly restore some kind of vanishing goodness in our fast-paced and ever-expanding world, my thoughts traveled back to my miserable 8-5 corporate lifestyle where I had been feeling stuck in rut. Negativity had been seeping into every crack of my world and way of thinking. The prospect of something special happening to me just seemed impossible at this point. However, I could not get the thought of my encounter with this little owl. The sad, desperate look in her eyes, and the way I had been standing just inches away feeling helpless to do something for her. The odds seemed stacked against us both. I was missing something from my life, and she was trying to simply hang on to hers. I started asking about the owl, what was wrong with her, what I could do to help. Every week I made the drive up to Arlington, and as she began to heal, I started to work with her. Once a volunteer who was scared of everything, I was starting to have the courage to hold this Barred Owl. I sometimes took her for walks in the woods, talking to her along the way, sharing my secrets and what I wished for. I had even secretly named her the Sweet Girl. Our chance meeting had quickly become some kind of kindred companionship. But unfortunately for the Sweet Girl, her injuries had run deeper than I might have imagined. The problem was that she would not eat on her own and had to be force fed daily. This is highly stressful to a wild animal and even cruel to continue to do so over a long period of time, especially if an animal shows no sign of recovery. Despite the odds, I believed that this owl was going to pull through. Reminding myself that I was still not long past being the skittish volunteer I was before, I sought the guidance of another volunteer at Sarvey named Kestrel Skyhawk. Kestrel’s objective advice came from 20 years of experience at Sarvey. Knowing what kind of disappointment I might be facing, she warned me that the Sweet Girl might not recover to the point where she could eat on her own. Then she suggested several ways to try to stimulate the Sweet Girl's appetite. We tried eating potato chips loudly in her cage to resemble the sound owls make when breaking the bones of their prey. However unappetizing that may seem, it makes this kind of predator hungry. When that didn’t work, we tried other ways to stimulate her appetite. We even played a CD of other owl calls to excite her, but there was still no sign of her taking initiative to eat. The weeks of rehabilitation became months of rehabilitation. In the meantime, the fall gave way to the even shorter and darker days of winter. It seemed that the Sweet Girl had hit a plateau, which was a delicate and dangerous place to be in her slow recovery. Soon the days would grow longer, and the cages would rapidly fill with summer babies and other injured animals with better prospects of quicker and possibly complete rehabilitation. And just as I had feared, these longer days arrived too quickly. But despite the growing murmurs of bleak expectations for the Sweet Girl’s future, I was not ready to give up on her. Yet, the nagging fact remained that more cages were needed to hold the increasing number of animals arriving at Sarvey. I asked myself why I had let my guard down in that first encounter with this bird. Why had I given in to this personal connection with something that I had no power to fix? How had I forgotten the skittish 9–5 volunteer that I really was, and what made me think I could save this owl? And as I played our first eye contact through my head, the final question forced its way out, why didn’t I just keep walking? I had been in a slump before, and I had fears that I had mistakenly used the owl as a way of digging my way out of a melancholy routine. But I had learned much since I had been volunteering at Sarvey. And I knew enough by this point to know that what we do for these animals is not that shallow. Perhaps there is some escapism to be found in driving to these secluded grounds and finding oneself attached to the cute and cuddly side of Sarvey, but it doesn’t take long to find out that a strong will and a strong back are just about as important in this place as a soft spot for injured animals. I found a purpose for my life that had far more impact on the world than my 9–5 schedule. And that purpose was being fulfilled before I had connected with this owl, before I had seen and felt something in this one particular animal above all others I had worked with or seen. With these thoughts in mind, I looked forward to my next day at Sarvey. When I arrived, I was anxious to see the Sweet Girl, but I first stopped and read the list of tasks for the day. To my horror, I discovered that she was scheduled for euthanasia that afternoon. My time was up, and her second chance at life was up as well. I fought back my devastation and considered how hard of a decision it must have been for those dedicated people that work at Sarvey on a daily basis. Still my heart was broken by the thought. I went to the Sweet Girl, and took her out to a favorite outside cage to feel the fresh, open air. Now sobbing, I said, "I tried my best for you, and I'm sorry it wasn't good enough." She looked at me, and then lifted her head up to gaze at the skies where she once soared. She looked at me intently once again as if to ask, "Are you paying attention?" I lifted my own head toward the sky, feeling that this owl was somehow trying to communicate with me, but not sure what she was trying to say. Later, I had left Sarvey in a state of misery, guilt, helplessness, and with an unrelenting feeling of failure. I was confused about my connection with the Sweet Girl. A week had passed when I was emailing with another volunteer from Sarvey. In a side note in what was to be his last message, he ended by saying "BTW, your owl is eating on her own." My heart sped up in excitement and then quickly sunk as I thought he was probably referring to the week before. I emailed back, "She was euthanized last week." When his reply came, I had to read it several times. "No, she wasn't," he said, "They decided to give her more time and she ate on her own." Two years have gone by now, and the Sweet Girl, with her new name, Chante Washte, is an educational ambassador for Sarvey Wildlife Center. Her job is to educate humans on the importance of wildlife. The Barred Owl has only two enemies, the Great Horned Owl, a predator, and man. Most Barred Owls are killed by humans by eating poisoned rodents, being hit by cars, or by displacement due to loss of habitat resulting from urban development. Maybe it is corny to still believe some things happen for a reason. But whether that’s true or not, a twist of fate and a chance encounter between two troubled souls gave me an opportunity to learn about one of the Northwest’s truly fascinating animals. I learned from her that in our world of fast food and 24-hour shopping, we are conditioned to expect everything "now." However, there are precious things in life that take time, patience, and that cannot always be planned. As the Sweet Girl hit a low point in her life, she found me in mine. Watching her endure her slow ascent from injury to recovery, I realized that maybe I just needed a little more time myself to make my life better too. We are not sure what life is going to deal us, but it is crucial to believe in better days. It is in our power to take action to make a difference. I know that the Sweet Girl is here today because people loved her and believed in her will to live. I don't like to think about that horrible day when I thought that I was saying goodbye forever to my sweet friend, but I like to think that I have figured out what she was trying to say to me while I sat there with her in what I thought were her final moments. When you are down, look up and get a new perspective on a world full of possibilities. Think of me and never forget that miracles really are possible.