Rita studied in the walk-in closet. She was getting her graduate degree in Art History. Classes were held in the Doris Duke pied-a-terre on Fifth Avenue. Ms. Duke had donated it to NYU in the 1970's. The closet was the size of two spacious rooms. Every wall was mirror. Reflections of light must have danced on and off the books in that classy closet. Rita's major was 18 th century French Art.
Besides art, Rita took an interest in nature. She liked birds, even then. Birds were present in so many medieval paintings, after all. Birds in art symbolize something that I sense is fiercely essential to Rita - the spirit and freedom.
There was one special bird Rita knew first hand – her landlady, Doris Duke. A Peacock of sorts. Every once in awhile Ms. Duke would appear in person and inspect. Ms. Duke wanted to make sure that there weren't any nicks or scratches or ink stains. I get the impression that Ms. Duke may have overdone it, but Rita is very thorough in her own right.
I met Rita about a year ago when I brought her a hapless pigeon. I found it one spring day lifeless and forlorn, by the stoop of a Brownstone.
Rita is a wildlife rehabilitator that works every afternoon out of a Veterinarian office in Manhattan's Upper Westside. She deftly took the pigeon from the shoebox and carefully and thoroughly examined it. It had a broken wing. Rita set the wing in a splint and I took it home for rehabilitation.
It healed and was set free where it was sure to find food and a flock. Since then, I have taken pigeon after pigeon to Rita for help and healing. I come across quite a few on walks with my dog Ruffy.
#
Rita's telling me about herself while looking into a microscope with her right eye and twisting and turning knobs to focus. I'm her “understudy” at the hospital for two weeks while her partner is on vacation.
Rita's in her late forties, of medium height, with natural short dark hair. I've seen her coming back from horseback riding in Central Park: her face red from exercise and her hair glistening wet from the shower and knows to stay behind her ears. She wears no make-up and yet her skin is radiant and her eyes are sparkling and intense. She has a purpose in life: Champion Our Wildlife! In her presence you know she means business. And thin! She's lost pounds taking care of the pigeons. Its summertime and she wears dark sandals. No painted-perfect pedicure toes – all natural.
Everyone likes Rita. My dog Ruffy jumps up and down on seeing her, birds breathe a sigh of relief in her hands, even lizards from the sister hospital snuggle into her neck. And people - those with the hapless, all ask for Rita.
When Rita called and asked if I would assist for two weeks, what could I say but “Yes!” So here I am one late summer morning, “helping” and learning.
The scientific method beginning in the 18 th century has blossomed to the present. Rita's now looking at color and form through a microscope. Rita shows me how to prepare the slides of Pigeon poo. The results decide the treatment. We put poo onto a slide after it's mixed with a chemical in a small plastic cylinder. Then four different chemicals are applied after that.
“It's a wonder any poo-poo is left!” I remark.
Life and death can be detected, and aesthetically appreciated. For the forms of the bacteria are almost beautiful.
“Look for the purple – those are the good bacteria; the pink are bad.”
I see what looks like teeny purple hot dogs bunched in all different designs. Luckily two pigeons had purple hot dogs and the third had none at all – just some vegetable globs. All three pigeons have infections and are progressing under Rita's care. .
Rita's a sort of Doris Duke for pigeons. She's made a generous donation of her time and knowledge for their well being. And she's dedicated. She's at the hospital everyday.
Under her tutelage, I learn how to tape down a pigeon to be X-rayed. The secret is to keep the sternum straight up so one can see all of the wing and collarbones without deformity.
Rita teaches me how to prepare medicines even if I feel I'm not qualified to administer them. You have to hold the beak and pull the neck up long and put the syringe with the medicine, way down the bird's neck. If you aren't skillful, you can tear the throat.
I learn how to exercise the birds. We take a pigeon one at a time, in a room, hold onto their legs and let them – fly. Once they get a momentum of wing flapping we let go of their legs and they swoop and soar. Being in a small room while a bird is flying was scary at first, to see and feel this power. On the other hand, there's joy in this freedom that transcends sickness and captivity for at little bit of time.
And of course comes the cleaning of the cages. It always feels good to get down to the basics, even if it's grungy.
Most interesting is Rita dealing with the people who bring in an injured bird. Sometimes she has to repeat herself five or seven times. They're so upset – they can't hear. She's always kind and good-natured about it.
Who is this person, Rita who went from Doris Duke to pigeons? She should be a CEO or at least a doctor, I think as she's hunched over the microscope.
I know from passing remarks that her son is seventeen years old. So I ask her what he's interested in.
“Subways,” she said. “His first words were ‘buppitybuppitybupity D.' Then came' buppitybuppitybuppity 1' and' buppitybuppitybuppity A.' We realized, my husband and I, that he was mimicking a subway. He's been intensely into subways ever since.”
“A real New Yorker.” .
“Someday I'll tell you how I met my husband,” she said. “I was looking for the best DNA. I finally found him.
In my mind's eye, I see Rita as a graduate student pouring over a gigantic microscope discerning if the strand of hair from her date that night would meet rigorous qualifications.
“So your husband's really smart.”
“Well, no, it's his father who's really smart, but the intelligence sifted down to my husband as an afterthought.” I wonder how she found the strand of hair from her father-in-law, but I don't ask.
This is the tail end of my two weeks. We just have a little winding up to do and that's it. Rita says that I can learn to do the lab work on the pigeons if I'm interested.
“We could start in the fall. I'm really busy with my new project and this is taking up my time.”
“What's your project?”
“I test television shows. What better way to use my 18 th century art history?” she said wryly. “Right now, we're doing Miss America.”
“You mean you're finding out if Miss America fits the women's lib model?”
She didn't have to answer. Everyone knows that bathing suits are “out” and brainpower is “in.”
Rita and I take off our latex gloves; I give her the notes I had been taking.
“Thanks so much Marian. You were a big help.”
Rita picks up two cases, each with a sick baby pigeon.
“These are coming home with me.” She said.
“How many do you have?”
“Ten of my own and about five recovering rescues.”
“Does your husband like pigeons too?”
“No but he puts up with them. All except Oscar. Oscar is the pet of my partner. He is a big spoiled bull cock and coo's all day. My husband can't handle it. So I put him back in this room.”
I looked at Oscar's cage and am glad he's in it. Rita had asked me to give him an outing the other day. He bites. It was a relief to know that I can't like all of them. Before Oscar I felt that I had to unconditionally like all of them. After Oscar I know that's impossible.
I leave the animal hospital wondering if I'd come back in September. It's a lot of work tending to the unfortunate avian flock. As I'm walking home I see Rita making her way up the block with the two needy pigeons. Her heart's in the air with the winged crowd. Her son's heart is underground with the subway system. Where is her husband's heart?
And where is mine?