Agoraphobia

Day 635 (Waste Not, Want Not)

It was late fall. The sky was covered by one gigantic, white cloud stretching from horizon to horizon, diffusing sunlight like an opaque, fluorescent light cover. The air was crisp. My breath was visible.

I was carrying a bucket of hog slop, boiled up by David and Jack an hour earlier. It was still warm. From its composition, I guessed at its ingredients... water, fish guts, corn cobs, burned muffins, apple cores, onion peels, contaminated canned peaches, moldy bread, eggshells, bone meal, rotten peanuts, and a dead mouse. (The mouse floated face-down on the slop's surface like a Jersey snitch. I assumed it was caught in a trap and dumped into the "organic waste" bucket by someone taking Grandpa Kevin's "waste not, want not" advice to heart.) The slop looked and smelled like vomit.

I waded through a multitude of chickens on my way to the pen. The hogs saw me coming and started to crowd in front of the trough. (Aggressively vying for optimal position.) I'd already fed them surplus fruit and fish, but they considered the vomit-like slop to be the "good" stuff.

Suddenly, a huge eagle swooped down and pounced on a nearby chicken, scaring the crap out of me. I dropped the slop bucket, its contents spilling onto the ground. I'm sure the hogs' hearts broke at the sight.

Briefly, the eagle and chicken fought. (If you can even call such a lopsided struggle a "fight".) The eagle's powerful talons ripped open the smaller bird with ease. The eagle looked directly at me, then carried the dead chicken to the barn's roof.

Bender bounded over, but was unable to reach the eagle in time. The hairs along Bender's back were raised in frustration as he looked up at the huge bird on the barn's roof. The eagle darted its head around suspiciously. Then it started to consume the chicken. Bender's glare was intense enough to bore through wood.

I ran inside the Main House. "Everyone!" I shouted. "An eagle is killing the chickens! It's on the barn!"

Uncle Peter ran past me and hustled over to the gun box on the porch. Meanwhile, almost everyone else started to crowd in front of the windows. (Aggressively vying for optimal position.) They could see the eagle ripping into the chicken with its beak, white, blood-stained feathers fluttering to the ground.

Bryce bounded out of the house with his enormous tongue flapping and joined Bender. For a brief time, they were both watchful sentinels, focusing on the eagle's every move. But once Bryce noticed the spilled slop on the ground, he temporarily lost interest in the eagle and started eating. Bender, by contrast, was the consummate professional. He kept his gaze firmly fixed on the huge bird the whole time.

Meanwhile, Uncle Peter was pulling his hunting rifle from the gun box.

"That's a BALD eagle," observed Leslie, adjusting her purple scrunchie.

"I believe you're right," supported Great-Uncle Ellis.

"She's definitely right," proclaimed Nichole. "You can tell from the white head and tail plumage. That's an adult bald eagle."

Uncle Peter was on the porch steps, taking aim at the bird.

"Stop!" shouted Nichole. "Hold your fire! It's a bald eagle!"

"I know it's a bald eagle! It's killing our chickens!"

"Don't shoot! The—"

(BANG!)

At first, it appeared Uncle Peter had missed. The bald eagle took off, leaving behind the dead chicken, which slid off the barn roof and plopped to the ground gracelessly. But the eagle didn't fly far before spiraling down and landing with a tumble, obviously wounded.

Bender charged straight at the bird with deadly intent. The bald eagle sprang into the air in a last-ditch effort to escape, but Bender leapt up and pulled it down. Briefly, the eagle and dog fought. (If you can even call such a lopsided struggle a "fight".) At one point, Bender had the screeching eagle's neck in his jaws and preceded to throttle the huge bird.

Bryce joined the battle rather late. In fact, I'm certain the bald eagle was already dead. Bryce bit down on the bird's rump and started pulling. A brief tug of war ensued. It ended with Bender tearing away almost the whole bird and Bryce tearing away a mouthful of tail feathers. Both dogs trotted proudly over to Uncle Peter and dropped their trophies at his feet.

"Good boy, Bender!" cheered Uncle Peter, petting the dog affectionately. "You're a good dog, too, Bryce!" he added, giving each of the happy animals kisses on the head. Uncle Peter retrieved the dead chicken and looked it over. Apparently, he thought it was too mangled for human consumption. He tossed it into the pen, and the hogs gobbled it up. Uncle Peter then picked up the dead bald eagle and carried it to the garage.

The crowd that had gathered around the windows dispersed. The show was over.

Or so we thought...

Nichole stomped to the garage. "What in the fuck is the matter with you, Peter!?" she thundered.

Great-Uncle Ellis and I exchanged glances, then strode over to watch.

"What?!" shrugged Uncle Peter. "That bird was killing our chickens."

"But it was a bald eagle!" grieved Nichole.

"Why should that make any difference?"

Nichole looked aghast. "I can't believe you need to ask that!"

"Don't you think you're overreacting?"

"Just promise me you won't shoot another bald eagle."

"I can't promise that. What if another bald eagle starts killing our chickens?"

"Then let it!" she snapped, through clenched teeth.

"A bald eagle could eat as much as a chicken every day. If you want me to spare bald eagles, you'd better give me a good reason."

"The bald eagle is an endangered species—"

"What!?!?!" blurted Uncle Peter, giving off a single bark of contemptuous laughter. "Endangered?!" He looked around as if waiting for a referee to run up and call a foul. "Right now, there're more bald eagles on Earth than humans! WE are the endangered species."

"The bald eagle is our country's sacred emblem. It—"

"We're not part of the United States anymore, Nichole. Do you remember how the president tried to kill you and everyone else living here? We're on our own. We're members of an autonomous refugee community now. There's no U.S. of A. Get used to it. We all—"

"There's no point in arguing with a fool!" huffed Nichole, turning on her heel and stomping away.

Uncle Peter lowered his voice to a flat, sarcastic tone: "Please... wait... come back... you've thwarted me with logic... I was wrong to disagree with you... come back..."

"Why did you bring the dead eagle in here?" I asked.

"So Ellis can prepare it for cooking. Waste not, want not."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No. Why waste perfectly good meat? Besides, I'm curious what it tastes like."

"Like chicken. Same as anything else," I answered glibly. 

"I understand the need to kill the bald eagle." counseled Great-Uncle Ellis. "But if you cook and eat this bird, it will upset people and damage morale needlessly. It's not worth the bad blood."

Uncle Peter sighed deeply and gave Great-Uncle Ellis a nod. Uncle Peter carried the bald eagle out to the hog pen and unceremoniously tossed it in. Waste not, want not.

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