The Kitchen Readings by Michael Cleverly Page A

tractor was used on a regular basis, this was a fairly stupid place to set up a nursery. Hunter was waiting for the bird to decamp so he could grab the eggs and move them to the safety of one of the cages. Once the eggs were moved, the mother would usually accept the new spot and proceed with her nesting duties there. Hunter and I waited and watched. The bird came strutting out of the garage where the tractor was parked. When it was a safe distance from the garage, and occupied with its pecking and scratching, Hunter made his way inside. He came out with an egg in each hand and casually made for the cage on the deck of his cabin, feigning exaggerated nonchalance. The peacockspotted him. Then she spotted the eggs. With an ear-splitting screech, she gave chase. Hunter jumped, then fled. The peacock stayed on the ground, flapping as she ran, closing the distance between them. At the last possible moment she took flight, landing directly on Hunter’s head. They both screeched, equally terrified, equally surprised. A peacock’s talons are about the size of your hand, with large, sharp claws, Hunter’s hands were full of peacock eggs. He had no way to dislodge her. He was not happy.
    I don’t know how good peacocks are, in general, at takeoffs and landings; when I see them, they’re usually just walking around pecking and squawking. This one seemed mighty surprised to be sitting on Hunter’s head. I got the sense that she wanted off just as much as Hunter wanted her off. She flapped again and was back on the ground. Hunter lurched up the stairs and across the deck to the cage. He deposited the eggs, and the bird came flapping after. Hunter shut the door on bird and eggs. He stepped back, shaken and sweating.
    Years later I moved into Hunter’s neighborhood. My cabin was less than a mile from Owl Farm. One morning I looked out into the backyard and saw one of Hunter’s birds strutting around. As a rule, the peacocks stuck close to Hunter’s, the food source. Once in a while, though, one would wander off a bit, never too far, and get disoriented. I don’t think their homing instincts are really great. To make it all the way to my place seemed unusual, but that was what happened. I called Owl Farm, and Deborah told me that Hunter was out of town. I explained the bird situation. Since neither of us considered ourselves peacock wranglers, we decided that Deborah would provide me with peacock chow and I’d feed the bird at my place until Hunter got back. Then he could figure it out.
    When Hunter returned I described to him what pleasant company the bird had been. When I got up, it would be waiting outside the back door for a breakfast feeding. When I returned in the afternoon, at first it would be nowhere to be seen, but then it would appear when it realized I was home, and start looking for a little dinner. If I spent the remainder of the afternoon on the deck, it would hang out with me until I retired. I think that Hunter was charmed by the fact that one of his friends actually understood his feelings for these birds. So he offered to give the bird to me. Now, behavior that is regarded as eccentric in the talented and famous can actually be “probable cause” in a commitment hearing for the rest of us. I had to decline. I also didn’t think that the uneasy truce between the peacock and my murderous cats would last forever. I appreciated that the huge bird was teaching the evil bird-killing cats a little humility, but I was afraid of what might happen if someone got brave.
    Hunter suggested that I start feeding the bird a little closer to the back door every day. He figured I could eventually get it to eat in my back room, and then I could trap it in there, at which time Hunter would come over, bag the thing, and transport it back to Owl Farm. It took a little over a week, but in the end the bird was eating comfortably in the back room, and I could close the door behind it without