DUMMERSTON — For nine years, our neighbor Frank has housed an emu he rescued from Santa's Land in Putney.
Frank's emu is about 5 feet tall. In case you are unfamiliar with the emu, it's second to the ostrich in the largest existing flightless bird category. Not that I knew any of this until recently, as his emu lives in a stall on his property, and I'd never dared to stop there.
One recent day, my husband Bill noticed something unfamiliar in our field. After a minute, he recognized the emu.
Frank doesn't have a phone (we didn't think he had electricity either, but he talked about having a TV), so Bill drove down the hill to talk to him.
He found Frank distraught. The emu had escaped the day before, and he was convinced that unless he found a gun that shot a large net to cover the emu, there was no catching her. Frank had tried tackling her and got pretty cut up. He said she could easily gut you.
In the meantime, I traveled out to the field with my camera. The emu seemed unperturbed by my presence and continued preening herself as I walked closer. She made a lovely drumming sound.
I took photos of her and picked ticks off my clothing (four by the end of the day). Frank decided to walk up with the pony that lived in the next stall over so that he might lure her closer. Frank was concerned she was dehydrated and hungry, so Bill got her a bucket of water, and I got her some bread.
She'd have none of it.
Speaking nonstop, Frank talked about how much the emu meant to him. He said that he was afraid she had little brainpower, and that there was no chance of herding her into a penned-in area, or getting her to follow him and the pony. He was sure she'd be eaten by coyotes. He was ready to take all the money he had to buy a net gun. I tried calling the game warden, to no avail.
The emu seemed happy to stand near me, and I bonded with her.
* * *
Two hours went by. With the hope that she'd stay in the field, Bill put up some fencing, and then he and Frank left.
The emu jumped over the stone wall and walked into our apple orchard. I stuck with her. Then, the game warden arrived. He, too, was able to get close to her. Bill drove down to get Frank, who again tried to tackle the emu.
It didn't work.
The game warden thought he might be able to lasso her legs, so we tried to bring her in by using snow fencing and extended arms.
At last, Frank tackled her for a third time and was able to hang onto her. As the game warden held her legs, Bill duct-taped them together. Frank said it was the only way to keep her from clawing.
The men crated her, hoisted her into Frank's truck, and returned her to her stall.
By now, three hours had past. The emu was worn out. Frank was scratched up. We were all exhausted.
Since moving to Vermont, my mother looks out her window, hoping to see a deer, turkey, or maybe a bear.
On this day, she got to watch an emu.