One of the surprises at his first becoming a regular member of the family was his marked liking for companionship. Where the family members were, there, too, was Robert. If Mildred was sewing in the sewing room, Robert was there, investigating patterns, running off with bits of cloth and generally participating in the project. If Tommy was reading the paper, Robert was in his lap, begging for attention. When he found that Tommy’s interest was really on that paper, he would give up to the point of nestling in the crook of Tommy’s arm, or on his shoulder, especially if he was wearing a soft woolen shirt.
Robert was highly sociable. The more people around, the merrier. In the living room there is a large circular coffee table in front of a semicircular davenport. Tea was often served there, served around Robert. He greeted every newcomer with cries of real delight. The cries were always the same, and continued while he investigated the caller’s shoes. He had a distinct aversion to open-toed shoes or sandals of any kind. He liked old shoes best, especially those belonging to Tommy, and his preference of Mildred’s footwear was a pair of fiat-heeled red shoes. Once the shoe inspection was over and people settled down to visit or have tea, Robert got on the middle of the table and devoted himself unconcernedly to preening. He kept an eye on any cake or cookie which appeared, and daintily helped himself. Tea was good when it had cooled down.
It was amusing to observe the caution with which people approached Robert when they saw him for the first time. They were so careful to move slowly, not to make any sudden motions, to keep their voices down in order not to frighten him in any way. Frighten Robert? It couldn’t be done. Experiencing nothing but love and kindness in his life, he developed a feeling of complete security and confidence toward any and all humans. I said Robert could not be frightened. One exception to this statement was his fear of birds. A sea gull—or even a sparrow—flying over him outdoors would send him into a state of panic. At such times he seemed to freeze, then crouch down and flatten himself against the ground, then he would dart under a nearby bush or big-leafed plant. He had no mother to teach him the danger of hawks; no bird ever attacked him; he ignored completely the lovebirds in the house, even when they were allowed to fly free for a while—but outdoors any bird terrified him.
We celebrated his two-months-old anniversary on September 14, 1962. We had tea out on the Kienzles’ patio and for Robert I had a cupcake topped with two small candles, the rim of the bread and butter plate on which it was served being covered with fresh chickweed, the stems anchored by the cake. They were not anchored long. Every bit of it disappeared in a few minutes, and then he ate all the cake he could hold. We smile now to think what an important date that seemed. Later we celebrated only actual birthdays.
2
REGISTRATION
IN RETROSPECT, Mildred and Tommy realized that had they just known enough to leave things to Robert, they need not have been so concerned about letting him go. Meanwhile, they made plans to go to a bird sanctuary farther down the Cape and tell the whole story to the Audubon people. Mr. Wallace Bailey, the very able director of the sanctuary, was to give a lecture soon. When the time came, Mildred and Tommy attended. They saw the sanctuary, saw birds which had been brought there wounded or sick, which were living there happily in cared-for freedom; they were greatly impressed by Mr. Bailey, his ideas, his practices and his personality. They arranged to have a few minutes with him after the lecture, and he listened with real interest to the whole remarkable story. At the end of it Mildred summoned her courage and asked, “Do you think we should bring him down here to you?”
Mr. Bailey considered the matter for a moment and then said, “Well, to tell you the truth, we have not had much success with quail. It seems to me that, since the bird has done so well under your care, it might be better just to let things continue as they are. However, he must be banded for our records, and then if he leaves you, in the mating season for example, we would have the identification record.”
Mildred and Tommy agreed readily, and asked what the banding would entail.
“There are some new bands coming out, very light plastic ones,” said Mr. Bailey. “I’m going to Boston soon to get some of them. In the meantime we’d better put one of the present bands on.” He showed them the band, a tiny, very light metal object with a number stamped on it.
The next day, while Robert was held in the safety of Tommy’s hands, the little band was slipped on. A tiny clamp held it securely and it was just the right size, as Mr. Bailey had known it would be. It didn’t bother Robert at all; he completely ignored it. Now he was legally registered and perhaps protected for the future. In these days of numeralization—zip codes, nine-digit telephone numbers, social security numbers and so on—it is only fitting and proper that Robert, having chosen to live with humans, should have a number of his own. Be it known henceforth that Robert became:
633-87201 Quail
U. S. Wildlife Service,
Washington, D.C.
Robert’s new status of ornithological citizenship with all rights and privileges appertaining thereto, did not impress him at all. He ignored it as he ignored the little band on his left leg. I do not want to give the impression that Robert was insensitive to change. Physical changes in his immediate surroundings upset him. Let the position of a davenport be changed, or let the corner of a rug be inadvertently turned back, and he made it known that something was wrong. In case of the rug, he went into quite an act. One day he encountered the folded corner as he was running across the room. He skidded to a full stop, stretched his neck almost two inches longer than normal and, holding his head to one side, began stalking. Back and forth he went, uttering little cries of consternation. Someone heard him, restored the rug to its normal flatness and Robert, with a little “Well, that’s taken care of” chirp, resumed his usual shape and continued on the original errand.
Displacement of very small objects did not escape his notice. He was intimately acquainted with the objects on Mildred’s dressing table, since he was usually on it when she was sitting there. But let a bottle of nail polish be left where it did not belong, as on the stand in the bathroom, and Robert’s world was disturbed. He would stalk and call, stalk and call, until the situation was remedied.
He seemed to accept the fact that human beings did not have special places where they could always be found. However, there were times when they should be in certain places, as for instance at the breakfast table. One of the enjoyments of retirement for the doctor and his wife was to have breakfast at leisure. Robert was always at the table too, having orange juice, bits of toast, sips of coffee, and occasionally some scrambled egg. One morning the doctor got up early and went out of doors to inspect some plants he had set out the day before. When Mildred got up, she noticed that she had really overslept, and thinking that Tommy would be hungry by then, she prepared breakfast, called Tommy, and then went into the bedroom to put on a dress instead of a housecoat. Tommy was at the table, Robert was at the table, but something was wrong. The other person was Not at the table. Robert looked at Tommy, looked toward Mildred’s accustomed place, looked back at Tommy, would not take his orange juice, paced back and forth and finally, with a little call of interrogation, flew down from the table, into the bedroom and pecked at Mildred’s feet. He followed her into the dining room, flew up on the table, and life was normal again.
Speaking of bedrooms—at about the same time as the banding, Robert gave up sleeping in the carton. At bedtime, which for Robert was usually about seven o’clock unless there happened to be company whom he did not want to miss, he signified that he was ready to go to sleep by getting up in a philodendron plant, which was on an end table. There he would make his sleepy sounds, pull up one leg, settle himself on the other, and with eyes closed, his head would droop. He was unmistakably tired. Someone was always there to pick him up and put him in the carton under his lamp. But one night he disappeared. He was found later on a high shelf in the dressing room off the big bedroom, sound asleep on a red velvet pillb
ox hat. He looked so cozy that they left him there, and from then on that was it. The hat was put in a cellophane bag, which did not detract from its comfort at all. Once settled down, he was there for the night. I often went in to peek at him. Since the crown of the hat was soft, just his head was visible. When the light went on, he would open one eye, give a little purr of recognition, and go back to sleep.
I once heard a woman with twelve grandchildren ask a young mother if her little boy, then at the creeping stage, had fallen out of bed yet. The young mother was horrified at the very idea of such a thing. “Well,” said the grandmother calmly, “he will. And it won’t hurt him, but he will.”
Robert, like other young creatures, passed that milestone. One evening while the family were reading in the living room, they heard a little frightened cry, a fluttering of wings and a little thud. They rushed in and, sure enough, he had fallen out of bed. He had evidently gotten too close to the edge of the shelf, lost his footing and his balance and down he went, striking his head against a corner of a sewing machine, which was also kept in the closet, before he could recover his equilibrium.
They picked him up to find that the feathers on the very top of his head were gone, and with them a bit of his scalp. It bled profusely, but healed nicely by having ointment rubbed in immediately, and several times afterward. I think this is when he developed such a liking for having the top and side of his head rubbed. He would lie motionless in someone’s hand as long as the rubbing continued.
After a second fall, which fortunately did not hurt him at all, a tiny night light was placed in the dressing room. We cannot shield any young thing from all possible vicissitudes in the growing-up process, and we all know the dangers inherent in overprotectiveness. But there is a distinction between overprotectiveness and common-sense caution, and it is the latter which we endeavored to maintain in rearing Robert.
“Up with the birds” did not apply to Robert. Although he insisted that both Tommy and Mildred come to breakfast when he was up, he did not reciprocate. He was a late sleeper, often missing breakfast with the family and not putting in an appearance till ten or eleven o’clock. His getting-up routine was most amazing. You might expect him to be a bit groggy on first waking, but he was not; he was in a hurry. He would fly down from the shelf and at a dead run dash (and that is the only word for it) into the bedroom, around the big dresser, and into the bathroom, where he made two, always two, large birdlike deposits on a piece of Kleenex placed on the floor for that purpose. Nothing could distract him on that run. While we are on this subject, in case there are raised eyebrows at the thought of a quail free in the house, let the eyebrows resume their normal position. After the morning evacuation, there were occasional tiny dry droppings like those of a parakeet. His favorite resting places were well known, as for instance the wide upholstered arms of the davenport, and these places were provided with nice-looking terry cloth pot-holders. A little shake into a wastebasket now and then took care of that. There were very, very few accidents.
As the first autumn season set in, there were gradual changes in Robert’s plumage. Not only did his coat become heavier and richer; the dark feathers darkened further, accentuating the contrast in pattern. Also, on his topknot appeared little spines, resembling tiny plastic pins with the tips showing beyond the lovely brown and black head feathers. Their purpose was soon apparent: to raise the crest in moments of excitement or pleasure. The topknot would be erect as the bird ran across the patio in pursuit of a bug. It would also rise when he heard a new sound which for the moment he could not identify. When the whistling teakettle started to whistle, in fact before it was audible to human ears, the topknot stood up and Robert sounded off, usually running to the kitchen to get that noise turned off.
This was evidently not the response of fear. But certain sounds, especially in the house, caused him to fluff out to twice his normal size, every feather seeming to change position. We have a photograph of him taken on the desk when the telephone was ringing. He knew it should be answered. He enjoyed the telephone and, hopping up onto the shoulder of the person talking, he would keep up a chatter himself. Given the chance, he chirruped and sang into the mouthpiece, responding to the voice coming from the other end.
One day the telephone repairman came. He had read about Robert in the local paper, but still was far from prepared to find him examining each tool, practically standing on tiptoe to look in the tool case, talking all the time. When the repairman called the operator to check on the condition of the telephone, Robert hopped up on his shoulder ready for a visit. The man was enchanted. Of course we could hear only his end of the conversation, but what went on at the other end of the line was obvious. It went like this:
“Checking on 0017—no! No, there isn’t anything on this line! Do you know what those sounds are? It’s a quail! No, I’m not kidding. Honest, it’s a quail. Wait a minute!” He held the mouthpiece up to Robert, who responded as he always did. “How about that!” Then, “Sure it’s in the house. You don’t think I’m calling from out in the woods, do you? It’s that quail, Robert.”
The man stayed several minutes after the work was done, just enjoying Robert, shaking his head in disbelief. He held Robert, he got down on the floor to watch him drinking and eating bird seed from his tray. It was a never-ending source of interest to watch people’s reactions to Robert. Of the hundreds who called on him, only perhaps three or four failed to respond to the marvel of this friendly, bouncy, affectionate and sociable little bird—a member of a species noted for timidity and shyness.
3
A CHANGE OF SEASON
QUAIL do not migrate, and are native as far north as Maine, so I was surprised by Robert’s behavior with the coming of winter. When the first snow fell, Robert was having none of it. The first time he saw it—as usual, he had gone to the door and asked to be taken out of doors—he was bewildered. Out stretched the neck, to one side went the head, and he walked back and forth along the edge of the protected part of the patio, not knowing what to make of this new look. He finally ventured forth a step or two, backing up immediately onto the familiar cement floor. After several such attempts and some vociferous complaining, he turned tail and rushed to the door to be taken in. At first I was ready to call Robert a sissy, but after all he was an indoor bird, accustomed to his creature comforts.
In about an hour he seemed to have forgotten the experience, and again asked for an outing. But the snow was still there. It was a light snow, and his careful steps in it left little quail footprints such as those of us who are fortunate enough to live in the country often admire on a snowy morning. This time when he came in, he evidently decided it was for good, and not again that day did he suggest another venture.
Everyone has seen a man standing before a fireplace, contentedly warming the seat of his trousers. Well! Robert went out to the kitchen, where his lamp was always lighted, but instead of settling under it as he usually did, he flew up on top of the lampshade, which brought him on a level with the windowsill, where, gently moving back and forth without moving his feet, he warmed his derriere. This proved so delightful that the shade became a favorite spot on snowy days. It was a comical sight to see him sitting there, comfortably squatting in a soft little lump over the lamp, watching through the window other birds braving the snow as birds should, happily getting the food put there for them. It would be presumptuous to say that Robert pitied those birds, but one thing is certain: he did not envy them. He had that smug, comfortable look one sees on a cat lying in front of a fireplace with paws tucked under.
Love of warmth seems to be universal, and Robert loved the fireplace when there was a blazing fire as much as the next person. He was always visibly excited when a fire was being laid, and had we not known that Robert knew how to take care of himself, we would have worried about his lack of caution. I have read that all wild animals and birds have an instinctive fear of flame. This was not true of Robert. He got on the hearth, right up next to the fire-screen, and not ev
en the loudest crackling and popping of burning apple wood disturbed him in the least degree.
I once read a scientific article which discussed a number of experiments involving mother substitutes for animals. The one I remember most vividly was the one conducted with infant monkeys. The babies had been taken from their mothers and were divided into two groups of perhaps three monkeys each. In one cage, the group was provided with a mother substitute consisting of a wad of chicken wire covered with terry cloth, while the group in the other cage had nothing at all. One convincing demonstration showed that when danger and fear were introduced, the babies with the terry-cloth mother rushed to it and clutched it and evidently derived a feeling of security and safety from it; but the other group ran frantically around the cage in terror and without comfort.
The lamp seemed to represent a mother substitute for Robert. It was a small boudoir type, perhaps twelve inches high from top to bottom, with about five inches between the table top and the lower edge of the shade. He had received his first warmth from that lamp, and he continued to seem to love it. It was always kept in a corner on the kitchen counter, with seed and water nearby. It was an appealing sight, on a wintry night, to look in the kitchen window and see the pool of light with Robert underneath, sitting flattened out or, much more frequently, lying on his side with feet and legs and neck stretched out in complete relaxation.
His settling-down process was always the same. He would fly up to the counter, go to the lamp, then with just his body visible, walk round and round rubbing the inside of the shade with head and shoulder. Sometimes after a particularly busy day, if Robert had had an unusual number of callers, or if he had helped with the housecleaning by following the dustcloth over what must have seemed to him acres of polished surfaces, the lamp was brought to the dining room and put at one end of the long refectory table. On these occasions, after he had sampled every article of food and eaten his fill of whatever appealed to him the most (how he loved it when there was sauerkraut), he would go to the lamp, make his rounds and settle down. In three or four minutes he would be sound asleep. Nothing disturbed him, not the clinking of silverware nor the clearing of the table between courses.
That Quail, Robert Page 2
