The Doctor and the Woodcock
The woodcock had been flying most of the night and she was tired. She had been making good time over the past few nights, traveling loosely with others of her kind, mostly females but including a few males determined to keep pace. As a group, they had followed instinctively the ancient route north that was roughly parallel to Interstate-95, only closer to the coast where the temperatures were more stable and food sources more plentiful.
It was a long journey and toward dawn of each night, she and the others had settled in a suitable marshy forest, spreading out and feeding in the soft ground as the eastern sky brightened and the night cold slowly dissipated. Probing the soil with her uniquely adapted bill, she had fed sufficiently, mostly on earthworms, but also on a variety of insect larvae, until a subtle uptick in light triggered an instinct to seek shelter, and before the sun crested the tree line, she was tucked into a dense thicket for the day, her brown, black and gray plumage melding as one with the surrounding leaf litter.
She was old for her kind, this being her sixth journey northward from the riparian forests of the Southern Piedmont region, and she was a mother five times over, having left her winter range each spring just as the dogwoods were beginning to bud, keeping pace with the new season as it, too, spread gradually north, and when she knew without understanding that she had traveled far enough, she would settle into one of the stretches of swampy woodland that are plentiful along the eastern slope of the Appalachian Mountains. It was there, amid the racket of the treefrogs, that she was successfully wooed five spring seasons in a row by one male or another and had in turn laid her eggs in a shallow nest on the ground, incubated the precious cluster as the surrounding forest turned from gray to green, and witnessed new life emerging from those eggs. By high summer, her brood were on their own, as was she, fattening up in preparation for the long journey back south.
With her experience had come wisdom that she relied on without question, and that wisdom had served her well: she always remained inactive throughout the day, for there were many ground-dwelling predators that haunted the same forests as she; nor did she search for food after dark, for there were owls in the trees above silent as the moon, able to detect the faintest rustle a hundred yards away, and capable of flying with deadly precision on all but the darkest of nights.
As the eastern sky creased with first light on this, the final night of her northward migration, her fatigue and hunger were her primary concerns. The flight she was part of began to fragment, some of the birds veering west toward the distant Appalachians and others heading in the opposite direction toward the coast. But she sensed colder air further inland and a dense cluster of unnatural light coming into view to the east spooked her and kept her moving due north. Sunrise was imminent as she fluttered over a stretch of residential rooftops and landed in a wooded expanse that had the requisite ground cover for shelter as well as a few small clearings that the males of her kind preferred for their mating ritual. She foraged and ate ravenously on earthworms and as was her custom nestled deep within a thicket as the first rays of sun touched the treetops.
Inside the house that bordered the woods, a second-floor light winked on. A few minutes later, a downstairs window lit up, the back door opened, and a black Labrador Retriever loped out into the fenced yard. The lab relieved himself and went about circling the perimeter of his domain. At the back of the fence, the wind shifted, and he caught a faint odor that stirred a deep instinct, and he pressed his nose against the chain link, huffing and whining. The back door opened again, there came a short whistle, and after a few moments’ hesitation he loped back to the house.
The source of the whistle was a woman, a mother on the far end of middle age, of medium height and build, and with a way of moving that suggested athletic talent. She had short cropped sandy-colored hair with a ruff of bangs, brown eyes and a warm smile. She wore a white terry robe and matching slippers, and she pulled the robe closer to her throat with one hand as she held the door open with the other. The dog plodded into the kitchen and looked up expectantly. The woman opened a cabinet, retrieved two treats, and tossed them to the lab. She was a doctor, and like most in the medical industry she valued clearly structured time. After patting the lab on his head, she got cup of coffee and a bowl of muesli and sat at the kitchen table to prepare for the day ahead. She opened her laptop, logged on, and reviewed her schedule: appointments all morning, and visits with patients at the hospital to fill up the afternoon. In between, she would have lunch with a close friend at a new sushi restaurant in town.
The floor above her creaked. It was her husband, she knew, getting out of bed, and she pictured him in his plaid cotton pajamas, walking to the bathroom, briefly losing his balance perhaps, and stumbling a little because he was older now and had lost some of the physical prowess that had attracted her to him decades earlier. She sipped coffee. The upstairs toilet flushed. The floorboards creaked again. She turned to the window and stared dreamily at the frost on the grass that glittered in the early light, and at the trees in the woods behind the back fence, the east-facing side of each trunk emitting a shimmery copper glow. A ping on her computer drew her from her reverie and she looked with interest at a news alert on the monitor: a late-winter snowstorm was approaching with more strength than forecast the day before, due to arrive around midnight and expected to dump between four and six inches of heavy, wet snow before moving out into the Atlantic.
She grunted thoughtfully and glanced outside again: the frost was melting, the grass glistening wet in the sunlight, and it was hard for her to picture a blanket of snow covering that space within twenty-four hours. She glanced at the wall clock: 7:25 AM. Time to get dressed. If she hurried, she would have time to walk the dog before heading over the hill to the office. She stood, refilled her coffee cup, and went upstairs. In the kitchen, the computer pinged again. Another weather alert, this one warning of a sharp dip in temperature in the wake of the pending storm.
As the day developed, there was no indication that foul weather was on the way. The sun was bright, and it was chilly but not cold enough to snow. After meeting her friend for lunch, the doctor took a short walk in the winter sunshine. The woodcock, too, was active, stirred by the sun’s rays that penetrated her woodland redoubt, and by a gnawing hunger that overrode the instinct to stay hidden during daylight hours. She did not go far from the safety of her thicket, however, and after a few minutes of foraging she had fed enough to satisfy her appetite. Back inside her makeshift nest, she quickly fell asleep, lulled by the sun that was angling toward the horizon.
It was dusk when the doctor pulled back into the driveway, but she knew that the light would linger for a while. She sat in the car for a few moments, contemplating a walk before true dark. But her husband had worked from home and would likely be in the kitchen preparing dinner and drinking wine. And it had been a long day, especially the afternoon, consoling patients as they recovered in unfamiliar beds, hooked up to strange contraptions under fluorescent lights. Tomorrow, she only had appointments in the morning and then an administrative meeting at the hospital in the afternoon. They had both been so busy lately; she would forgo the walk and instead spend quality time with her husband and indulge in a glass or two of wine. As she got out of the car, a gust of wind whipped her scarf over her face. She laughed as she pulled the scarf back and instinctively looked to the west, where a thick ridge of clouds had blotted out the sunset. When she stepped into the front hall, she smelled marinara sauce and Frank Sinatra was playing in the kitchen. Her husband, she knew, would be in his apron, preparing a rich Italian dinner. A glass of velvety red would be the perfect complement.
When she stepped into the kitchen, her vision proved true: he was wearing his chef’s apron, stirring homemade meatballs and marinara in a large stainless-steel pot, and sipping wine as he hummed along to ol’ blue eyes. They embraced and kissed. She poured herself a glass and sat at the table and they chatted as he took a half loaf of garlic bread from the oven and served their meal.
In the woods behind the house, the woodcock stirred, fluffed its feathers, and slipped from the thicket to begin feeding. The air was cold, she felt it pressing in, and the ground hard to penetrate with her bill. She had experienced these conditions before, and she knew that the ground would be softer and food more abundant under dense leaf litter. After a few minutes, she came upon a promising spot where leaves had accumulated against a chain link fence. It took effort to sift through the wet, matted litter, and when she finally exposed the bare ground, it was firm and required effort to penetrate. She foraged well past full dark and finally located some insect larvae, which she ate greedily. It was not sufficient to satisfy her hunger, but her survival instinct drew her back to the safety of her thicket. She would try again in the morning.
As the woodcock slept in its woodland shelter, a light in the second-floor bedroom of the house flicked on. A silhouette of a human form passed the window, and a few moments later another. Shortly, the window went dark. Inside the bedroom, the doctor and her husband faced each other in their bed, talking softly, and then gently touching, the touching turning more aggressive, and then the union, the slow return to gentle kissing and, finally, sleep.
The first flakes drifted down shortly after midnight, and within minutes it was snowing steadily. Inside the thicket, the woodcock slept soundly, her bill tucked under one wing, and up in the second-floor bedroom, the doctor breathed rhythmically beside her husband, the old cast iron heaters ticking randomly throughout the house. Neither bird nor woman stirred as the snow accumulated. Just before daybreak, the storm passed, and its work was done: a half foot of snow had fallen, and the vacuum left by the storm was quickly being filled by a restless cold front with a long tail.
The woman awoke first, stirred not by the bedside alarm but rather by a startling dream: of a vacant hospital, no patients to fill it, and running from one room to the other, desperate to find someone who needed comforting. She had awoken with a gasp and lay next to her softly snoring husband, listening to the wind buffeting the windows. She pushed herself too hard, that was no secret. But she understood too well the ailments that she treated, relentless ailments, and if she never slept and worked nonstop it would still not be enough. She glanced at the bedside clock: 6:32 AM. She rolled half-over and spooned against her husband’s backside. He grunted softly. After a few minutes, she felt better. She rose, slipped on her bathrobe, and pulled back the window shade. In the eerie predawn light, the backyard that had been green the day before was pure white, and the trees that loomed just beyond the fence were laden with several inches of snow. A few lazy flakes fell from the sky. Oh, she thought. It’s beautiful.
The woodcock awoke, warm in its cocoon of leaves but alarmed by the added weight of snow pressing down. She flexed her wings and shook her head and with considerable effort pushed up into a transformed world of pure white under pewter skies. She knew without thinking that this was trouble. Already a crust was forming on the surface of the snow; if it turned to ice, she would be unable to penetrate it to reach the ground, which would also be frozen. Frantically, she burst out from the thicket and walked to the chain link fence with the head bobbing strut that was unique to her kind. The snow had drifted some and with much effort she poked through the white mantle and drilled down to the earth. But the ground was solid, there would be no feeding this morning. She retreated to her burrow in the thicket, still slightly warm, closed her wings, and fell asleep. She would try again at dusk.
The administrative meeting was onerous, but the doctor knew it was necessary. Financial metrics, policy reviews, operations overview, and the sun was setting through the west-facing window when the team agreed to adjourn. Pleasantries were exchanged on the way out to the parking garage, and then everyone dispersed to their cars. On the drive home, her thoughts quickly shifted to her patients. Test results were pending for two of them, and another was scheduled to begin treatment the next day. She would be heading to the office earlier than usual in the morning, but she hoped to fit in an energizing walk beforehand. The road leading to the house was narrowed by the banks of snow and as she turned into the driveway apron, the tires skidded on ice and for a moment she lost control of the steering. The front tires reclaimed asphalt, she pulled up and parked. She was tired. No wine tonight and early to bed.
Behind the house, the woodcock struggled to the surface from its nest and proceeded to the fence line in the day’s fading light. She was weakened from lack of food and more susceptible to the wind that swept through the trees. With difficulty, she penetrated the layer of snow that had grown denser during the day. But the ground was still too hard to penetrate, and she went back to the thicket to rest. Her fate was in the hands of the next day’s weather.
Overnight, the skies cleared, and the temperature dropped significantly. With the cold came a change in the structure of the snow: the heavy ice crystals that had fallen the night before broke down into denser, smaller grains, compressing and squeezing out the air. On the surface, exposure to the cold transformed the snow into a layer of ice that thickened incrementally with each passing hour. When the woodcock awoke just before dawn, she instantly felt the weight pressing down from above. She struggled to break from the icy tomb, and with a few probes of her bill, she knew that she would be unable to penetrate the snow. But she was dangerously ravenous with hunger and her instinct to survive drove her again to the fence line, which she followed quite a distance, desperately pecking at the armor-like crust. Sensing the situation hopeless, she turned to go back to her nest. But she was disoriented, her confusion compounded by hunger and fatigue. She sensed what was coming. Her body numbed with cold, she hobbled a little further along the fence, tucked halfway under a thicket, and waited for death with the quiet dignity of the animals.
Inside the house, the doctor hurriedly put on her coat and hat in the front hall. Her husband, bless him, had said he would tend to the dog, giving her time for a brisk walk before grabbing an energy bar and heading to work. When she stepped outside, the sharp angle of the sun rising above the eastern tree line caused her to squint and the wind made her eyes water. Whew, she said, blinking rapidly, and she surged forward, carefully avoiding patches of ice on the driveway and proceeding down the street at a rhythmic pace. The cold air was refreshing in her lungs. She checked her watch: she had twenty minutes. She increased her stride.
As he drove with one hand, the man sipped coffee that had already grown cold in its cup. He squinted through the windshield, the radio playing classic rock music. There were patches of ice on the road, and he knew from experience that the van was not good in these conditions, but he had a few bags of sand in the rear of the vehicle which helped with traction. He was running late – potential customers were waiting for him to give a bid on a kitchen renovation – but he resisted the temptation to speed through the residential neighborhood. He took another sip of coffee as he rounded a long bend. As the road straightened, the sun flashed above the horizon. Instantly, the windshield was a sheet of blinding glare. He pulled down the sun visor, but it didn’t help. A dark shape appeared in front of the vehicle. With a gasp, he hit the brakes, but the tires clutched only ice, and the van slid forward of its own accord.
The black lab had been acting strangely when the husband let him out back. On the first few mornings, it was assumed that the dog was confused, wondering where its alpha master had gone. But the odd behavior continued: each morning as the husband stood by the window, sipping coffee and feeling the weight of the empty house, he watched as the dog paced the back fence, tail wagging, and through the glass he could hear the dog’s incessant whine. This morning, the husband was in no hurry to get dressed. He looked at his watch. In a couple of hours, members of the family would arrive. His suit and a lightly starched shirt were laid out on the bed, his polished shoes were in the closet. He only needed to decide which tie to wear; she had given him so many nice ties over the years.
Just what is he doing back there? The husband couldn’t resist a little smile, a shake of his head. He drained his coffee, tightened the belt on his bathrobe, and walked to the back door. Holding the door open, he called. The dog didn’t turn, its tail wagging feverishly. Exasperated but forcing control, the husband stepped down and plodded out across the yard in his slippers. The snow had softened, and with each step his foot sank down to his ankle and a jolt of cold shot up his leg. But he was indifferent to such discomfort and within a few seconds he was beside the dog, patting it and asking what the matter was. The dog answered with its eyes and the husband looked over the fence and saw something on the surface of the snow. It was a bird lying on its side, about the size of a robin, but with plumage the color of the forest floor and a physique of clownish proportions: a plump, round body, a small domed head with no discernable neck, and a ridiculously long, tapered bill.
The husband recognized it as a game bird, and it made sense that the dog was so excited. He grasped the dog’s collar and tried to coax him back to the house, but the dog showed stubborn resistance. Frustrated, the husband glanced again at the bird in the snow. Something about it was troubling. He leaned over the fence and looked closer. At that moment, the sun broke through the clouds and highlighted the subtle interweaving of earthtones on the bird’s back and the cinnamon coloring of its belly. He looked closer still, and it was then that he saw the glint in the half-opened eye. He stepped back. Come, he said forcefully to the dog. He pulled on the dog’s collar and, half-stooping, led the animal back to the house. A moment later, the sun disappeared behind a cloud, and in the snow the glint in the woodcock’s eye switched off like a light.