A falconer by chance
WHEN I first became involved with birds of prey, it was not falconry, but bird rehabilitation that occupied my time. I was 10 years old, already immersed in the world of cage birds: my father bred budgerigars, and my job was to keep them clean. Birthday and Christmas presents were invariably books about birds.
One day I answered the doorbell, to find two ladies, one of whom was cradling a tawny owl. Because we were birdkeepers, could we look after the owl? Yes we could – no hesitation. I took the very tame owl and installed it in a large rabbit hutch to keep it safe until father and I had worked out what to do with it. Food was not a problem; we had a cat whose mouse-catching abilities were the stuff of legend.
The next day the owner appeared: the local RSPCA inspector, whom we knew well. The owl
