Parrots Prove Deadly Read Online Free PDF Page B

the maples sugar red, the birches gold, but even though the scene was gorgeous and my car, a vintage Pontiac GTO, was purring like a kitten, I couldn’t focus on foliage.
    For starters, I’d promised Albert I’d help him with the raccoon. The animal certainly couldn’t help himself. A young male, as I suspected, he’d seemed as healthy as I was. And although that’s no guarantee of anything, there were so many other reasons for the young animal’s behavior that I couldn’t see euthanizing him just to make sure.
    When I’d gone back to see him, pacing back and forth in one of the pound’s large dog cages, I got the complete disorientation of an adolescent out on his own. He’d left home for the first time only a month before. After a few weeks of wandering—and some scrapes with other young males—he’d found what seemed to be the perfect burrow. Warm, high up, and dry, the attic was everything a raccoon could want, and this little creature was smart enough to know it—and to find his way back after being relocated once. What he couldn’t understand was his removal. He hadn’t even had to fight anyone to get in there. The space was empty; it should have been his.
    In a just world, it would’ve been. I didn’t want the poor guy to get in any more trouble, though. The condo residents might be city folk, but at some point they’d contact a local—someone other than Albert—who would rid them permanently of the raccoon. I knew the type. Those city folks wouldn’t want to see what was done, but they’d be happy the “problem” was “resolved.”
    As I turned onto the highway, pulling directly into the fast lane to avoid the leaf peepers, I decided on a plan of action. I’d drive over to Evergreen Hills later, talk to the property manager. I figured if I showed him the point of entry—despite the animal’s dazed state, I had a good visual image of a missing shingle under an eave—I could make a case for sealing it off. Then I could release the raccoon—I was sure Albert wouldn’t rat me out, especially if I was helping him out of a jam. As long as he stopped “invading” their space, there was little chance the residents would recognize the young male.
    I was thinking about communicating with the raccoon as I drove over to LiveWell. I hadn’t had much luck during my brief visit, when I’d stood and watched the poor animal pace. Back and forth, back and forth in what is usually a dog enclosure in the locked rooms behind Albert’s office, he’d been too anxious to relax. Which might be why I’d only gotten the little bit I had: just a few jumbled images that gave me the beast’s history, leading up to his current predicament. Other than that, it was all just a sense of a fit, young animal, confused by life. Of course, I could have been projecting. That’s the kind of thing I have to be on the lookout for, but what I hadn’t gotten was the usual jolt of comprehension—a voice, a sound, a feeling that let me know I was tuned in to the real thing.
    That may have been me. I hadn’t tried my usual method for jumpstarting communication: reaching out for the kind of physical connection that can sometimes share a shock of knowledge. Partly, I didn’t want to disturb the freaked-out animal any further. A wild animal—even a raccoon—was not going to find human touch comforting. Partly, I’ll admit, I didn’t want to get bit. I really did not want to kill him in order to test him for rabies. But I don’t believe in taking stupid risks, either.
    In truth, I didn’t know how much I could get from wild animals, those not socialized in our terms. Birds, I heard. They’re usually direct—they want to broadcast their message to everyone within earshot. And they could be noisy, especially out here in the woods. The occasional squeal of fear reached me when I was outside, too; prey animals reacting to the cruel realities of their world.
    More often, though, I found myself talking to domestic animals,