Conservation and the Natural World Theme Analysis

“Mr. Branitt, there’s one more thing I wanted to ask. I’m just curious.”

“Fire away,” said Curly, wiping his brow with a yellow bandanna.

“It’s about those owls.”

“Sure.”

“What’s gonna happen to them?” Officer Delinko asked. “Once you start bulldozing, I mean.”

Curly the foreman chuckled. He thought the policeman must be kidding.

“What owls?” he said.

Normally an officer of his rank wouldn’t get involved in such a silly case, but the company building the pancake franchise had some clout with local politicians. One of Mother Paula’s big shots had called Councilman Grandy, who immediately chewed out the police chief, who quickly sent word down the ranks to the captain, who swiftly called for the sergeant, who instantly summoned (last and least) Officer Delinko.

Beatrice Leep had laughed. “No, he’s not an Indian! I call him Mullet Fingers ’cause he can catch mullet with his bare hands. You know how hard that is?”

A mullet was a slippery, free-jumping baitfish that traveled in schools of hundreds. The bay near Coconut Cove was full of them in the spring. Throwing a cast net was the customary method of capture.

“Why doesn’t he live at home?” Roy had asked Beatrice.

“Long story. Plus, none of your business.”

“What about school?”

“My brother got shipped off to a ‘special’ school. He lasted two whole days before he ran away. Then he hitchhiked back, all the way from Mobile, Alabama.”

“What about your parents?”

“They don’t know he’s here, and I’m not gonna tell ’em. Nobody is gonna tell. You understand?”

In Montana, ospreys lived in the cottonwoods all along the big rivers, where they dived on trout and whitefish. Roy had been pleasantly surprised to find that Florida had ospreys, too. It was remarkable that the same species of bird was able to thrive in two places so far apart, and so completely different.

If they can do it, Roy thought, maybe I can too.

“Them cottonmouths can kill a person,” Curly said.

“Really. Can they kill a bulldozer, too?”

“Well... probably not.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Curly sighed. “Yes, sir. First thing Monday morning.”

“Music to my ears,” Chuck Muckle said.

Roy trailed him back to the bulldozer, where Beatrice remained perched on the blade, cleaning her eyeglasses.

[...]

Mullet Fingers tapped him on the arm. “Listen.”

Roy heard a short high-pitched coo-coo. Then, from across the open lot, came another. Beatrice’s stepbrother rose stealthily, tugged off his new sneakers, and crept forward. Roy followed closely.

The boy was grinning through his fever when he signaled for them to stop. “Look!”

“Wow,” Roy said, under his breath.

There, standing by the hole and peering curiously at one of the meatballs, was the smallest owl that he had ever seen.

Mullet Fingers chucked him gently on the shoulder. “Okay—now do you get it?”

“Yeah,” said Roy. “I get it.”

Roy stood rooted in the center of the road. He had an important decision to make, and quickly. From one direction came the police car; running in the other direction were his two friends...

Well, the closest things to friends that he had in Coconut Cove.

Roy drew a deep breath and dashed after them. He heard a honk, but he kept going, hoping that the police officer wouldn’t jump out and chase him on foot. Roy didn’t think he’d done anything wrong, but he wondered if he could get in trouble for helping Mullet Fingers, a fugitive from the school system.

The kid was only trying to take care of some owls—how could that possibly be a crime? Roy thought.

“They’ve probably got all the necessary paperwork and permits.”

“They’ve got permits to bury owls?” Roy asked in disbelief.

“The owls will fly away. They’ll find new dens somewhere else.”

“What if they’ve got babies? How will the baby birds fly away?” Roy shot back angrily. “How, Dad?”

“I don’t know,” his father admitted.

“How would you and Mom like it,” Roy pressed on, “if a bunch of strangers showed up one day with bulldozers to flatten this house? And all they had to say was ‘Don’t worry, Mr. and Mrs. Eberhardt, it’s no big deal. Just pack up and move to another place.’ How would you feel about that?”

“Ever since I was little,” Mullet Fingers said, “I’ve been watchin’ this place disappear—the piney woods, the scrub, the creeks, the glades. Even the beaches, man—they put up all those giant hotels and only goober tourists are allowed. It really sucks.”

Roy said, “Same thing happens everywhere.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t fight back.”

Roy was dazzled by the wondrous quiet, the bush old mangroves sealing off the place from the honking and hammering of civilization. Beatrice’s stepbrother closed his eyes and gustily inhaled the salty breeze.

A lone osprey hovered overhead, attracted by a glimmer of baitfish in the shallows. Upstream a school of baby tarpon rolled, also with lunch on their minds. Nearby a white heron posed regally on one leg, in the same tree where the boys had hung their shoes before swimming to the derelict boat.

[...]

The creek was incredibly beautiful and wild; a hidden sanctuary, only twenty minutes from his own backyard.

I might have found this place all by myself, Roy thought, if I hadn’t spent so much time moping around being homesick for Montana.

In addition to a fear of getting caught, Roy had serious qualms about trying anything illegal—and there was no dodging the fact that vandalism was a crime, however noble the cause.

Yet he couldn’t stop thinking ahead to the day when the owl dens would be destroyed by bulldozers. He could picture the mother owls and father owls, helplessly flying in circles while their babies were being smothered under tons of dirt.

It made Roy sad and angry. So what if Mother Paula’s had all the proper permits? Just because something was legal didn’t automatically make it right.

The driver’s seat was gone!

Dropping the rock that he’d been carrying for protection, Curly dashed to the next machine in line, a backhoe. Its seat had disappeared, too.

In a snit, Curly stomped toward the third and last piece of equipment, a grader. Again, no driver’s seat.

Curly spat out a cuss word. Without seats, the earthmoving machines were basically useless. The operators had to sit down in order to work the foot pedals and steer at the same time.

Again Roy was astounded by the immense flatness of the terrain, the lush horizons, and the exotic abundance of life. Once you got away from all the jillions of people, Florida was just as wild as Montana.

That night, lying in bed, Roy felt a stronger connection to Mullet Fingers, and a better understanding of the boy’s private crusade against the pancake house. It wasn’t just about the owls, it was about everything—all the birds and animals, all the wild places that were in danger of being wiped out. No wonder the kid was mad, Roy thought, and no wonder he was so determined.

“I got a quick question about the owls.”

“What owls?” Chuck Muckle shot back. “Those burrows are abandoned, remember?”

Curly thought: I guess someone forgot to tell the birds.

“There’s no law against destroying abandoned nests,” the vice-president was saying. “Anybody asks, that’s your answer. ‘The burrows are deserted.’”

“But what if one a them owls shows up?” Curly asked.

“What owls!” Chuck Muckle practically shouted. “There are no owls on that property and don’t you forget it, Mr. Branitt. Zero owls. Nada. Somebody sees one, you tell him it’s a—I don’t know, a robin or a wild chicken or something.”

Officer Delinko had clonked directly into one of Curly’s earthmoving machines. He glared up at the steel hulk, rubbing his bruised shoulder. He didn’t notice that the seat was gone, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have given it a worry.

The policeman was grimly preoccupied with another concern. His gaze shifted from the massive bulldozer to the bird burrow, then back again.

Until that moment, Officer David Delinko had been so worried about solving the Mother Paula’s case and saving his own career that he hadn’t thought much about anything else.

Now he understood what was going to happen to the little owls if he did his job properly, and it weighted him with an aching and unshakeable sorrow.

“Honest,” Roy said. “I looked it up on the Internet. Those owls are protected—it’s totally against the law to mess with the burrows unless you’ve got a special permit, and Mother Paula’s permit file is missing from City Hall. What does that tell you?”

Mullet Fingers fingered the camera skeptically. “Pretty fancy,” he said, “but it’s too late for fancy, Tex. Now it’s time for hardball.”

“No, wait. If we give them proof, then they’ve got to shut down the project,” Roy persisted. “All we need is one lousy picture of one little owl—”

“Look,” said Roy, “every day we’ve been reading about regular people, ordinary Americans who made history ’cause they got up and fought for something they believed in. Okay, I know we’re just talking about a few puny little owls, and I know everybody is crazy about Mother Paula’s pancakes, but what’s happening out there is just plain wrong. So wrong.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m making a whole scrapbook, honey, something to show your children and grandchildren.”

I’d rather show them the owls, Roy thought, if there are any left by then.

It turned out that a thorough E.I.S. had been completed, and that the company’s biologists had documented three mated pairs of burrowing owls living on the property. In Florida the birds were strictly protected as a Species of Special Concern, so their presence on the Mother Paula’s site would have created serious legal problems—and a public-relations disaster—if it had become widely known.

Consequently, the Environmental Impact Statement conveniently disappeared from the city files. The report later turned up in a golf bag owned by Councilman Bruce Grandy, along with an envelope containing approximately $4,500 in cash. Councilman Grandy indignantly denied that the money was a bribe from the pancake people; then he rushed out and hired the most expensive defense lawyer in Fort Myers.