The professor assigned Rita to study in the walk-in closet. Rita was getting her graduate degree in Art History. Classes were held in the Doris Duke pied-a-terre on Fifth Avenue that Ms. Duke had donated 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. The Age of Reason. Did Rita learn that color and form could be reasonable?
Besides art, Rita also took an interest in nature. She especially 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 that Rita became acquainted with in her lessons – her landlady, Doris Duke. 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. The way Rita talked about Ms. Duke, I saw in my mind's eye a splendid golden peacock ruffling her feathers as she was giving place the once-over. Rita admired follow-up even in peacocks. I got the impression that Ms. Duke may have overdone it, but Rita herself is very thorough in her own right.
I had met Rita about a year ago when I brought her a hapless pigeon. I had 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 Hospital in Manhattan's Upper Westside. I was amazed how deftly she took the pigeon from the shoebox and how carefully and thoroughly she examined it. The diagnosis was that it had a broken wing. Rita and her partner set the wing in a splint and I took it on home for its rehabilitation process.
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 seem to come across quite a few, on walks with my dog Ruffy.
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Rita was telling me about herself as she was looking into a microscope with her right eye and twisting and turning knobs to focus. I was with her as an “understudy” at the hospital for two weeks while her partner was on vacation.
Rita is in her late forties, of medium height, with natural dark hair cut short. I've seen her coming back from horseback riding in Central Park. Her face is red from the exercise and her hair is glistening wet from the shower and knows to stay gracefully behind her ears without combs or bobby pins. She wears no make-up and yet her skin is radiant and her eyes, even without liner are sparkling and intense. She has a purpose in life: Champion Our Wildlife! In her presence you know she means business. And thin! She told me she lost pounds taking care of the pigeons. It's summertime now, and she is always wearing dark sandals. No painted-perfect pedicure toes – all natural.
Everyone likes Rita. My dog Ruffy jumps up and down upon seeing her, the birds seem to breathe a sigh of relief in her hands, even the 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, while her partner was on vacation, what could I say but “Yes!” So here I was one late summer morning, “helping.” Actually I was getting first-rate training along with a glimpse into Rita's life.
The scientific method beginning in the 18 th century had blossomed to the present – looking with Rita at color and form through this special glass – a microscope. Rita showed me how to prepare the slides of Pigeon poo. The results would decide the kind of treatment for the Pigeon patients. We put poo onto a slide after it was mixed in a small plastic cylinder with a chemical. Then four different chemicals had to be applied to it. Almost like preparing an artist's palette.
“It's a wonder any poo-poo is left!” I remarked.
Life and death could be detected, even aesthetically appreciated. For the forms of the bacteria were almost beautiful.
“Look for the purple – those are the good bacteria; the pink are bad.”
I saw what looked like a group of 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 had infections and were now progressing under Rita's care. They were getting closer to the goal of being released.
I thought to myself that Rita was a sort of Doris Duke for pigeons. She has made a generous donation of her time and knowledge for their well being. And she is dedicated. She is there at the hospital everyday. Under her tutelage, I learned how to tape down a pigeon to be X-rayed. The secret, I would soon learn, is to keep the sternum straight up so you will be sure to see all of the wing and collarbones without deformity.
Rita taught me how to prepare medicines even if I felt I wasn't qualified to administer it. 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 learned how to exercise the birds. We took a pigeon one at a time, in a room held onto their legs and let them do what comes naturally – fly. Once they get a momentum of wing flapping up we let go of their legs and they swooped and soared around the room.
Being in a small room while the bird was flying was scary at first, to see and feel this power. But then there is a 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 felt good to get down to the basics, even if it was grungy.
Most interesting was the way Rita dealt with the people who brought in an injured bird. Sometimes she would have to repeat five or seven times the same diagnosis and what was to be done. They were so upset – they couldn't hear. She was always kind and good-natured about it. She said when it became trying for her patience she would just remember it was all for the bird.
Who was this person, Rita who went from peacocks to pigeons? She looked like she should be a CEO or at least a doctor, I thought as she was hunched over the microscope.
I knew from passing remarks that her son was seventeen years old. So I asked her what he was 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.”
“Wow! A real New Yorker.” I said.
“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 saw 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.” I stated.
“Well, no, it's his father who's really smart, but the intelligence sifted down to my husband too as an afterthought.”
I wondered how she found the strand of hair from her father-in-law, but I didn't ask.
This was the tail end of my two weeks. We just had a little winding up to do and that would be it. Rita said that I could learn to do the lab work on the pigeons if I were 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 asked.
“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.”
Oh, my God, I thought. From the 18 th century Descartes –‘I think, therefore I am' to the 21rst century, ‘think or get canned!'
“You mean you're finding out if Miss America fits into 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 took off our latex gloves; I gave her the notes I had been taking at her request of the lab result.
“Thank you so much Marian. You were a big help.”
“Thank you so much Rita. You were a wonderful teacher.”
Rita picked up two cases, each containing a sick baby pigeon.
“These are coming home with me.” She said.
“How many do you have at home?” I asked.
“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 said he couldn't handle it. So I had to put Oscar back in this room.”
I looked at Oscar's cage and was glad he was in it. Rita had asked me to give him an outing the other day. He bites. It was a sort of 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 knew that was impossible. Oscar doesn't care if I like him or not. He is one of the fortunates. He's healthy and just waiting it out until his mistress comes back from vacation. And then he's king!
I left the animal hospital wondering if I'd come back in September. It's a lot of work tending to the unfortunate avian flock and I worried I wouldn't be able to be consistent with my time and then I wondered if I would be too devoted or not objective enough to gain perspective of it all. As I was walking home I could see Rita making her way up the block with the two needy pigeons. Her heart was in the air with the winged crowd, I thought. Her son's heart was underground with the subway system. Where was her husband's heart?
And where was mine?