About that time a vulture died on my front doorstep

Living in a rural area I’m no stranger to wild animals. From angry rattlesnakes to timid baby deer, it is not uncommon to encounter the local fauna while walking the property. Most meetings are short and uneventful, with whatever I rustled up running away scared deeper into the woods.  

There is one creature that I see ever so seldomly, and I like to keep it that way – a black vulture. I’ve often spotted vultures, commonly called buzzards, circling the sky. When those aforementioned snakes and deer become roadkill, vultures eagerly clean up the mess, so their importance to the ecosystem is not lost on me, but I don’t like them. 

Their very presence suggests death. Spotting a committee (yes, that is what a group of vultures is called) of buzzards is an eerie sight. They are not aesthetically pleasing, with slick, greasy black features and wrinkled bald heads filled with the ancient knowledge that only buzzards are supposed to have. If they happen to roost on your house, they can cause serious damage with their continual vomiting of what is essentially acid. 

In short, I don’t mind blurring the lines between nature and civilization if I can avoid vultures. However, I did have an experience with a buzzard that was too close for comfort. It happened many years ago, but it’s worth recounting. Long before this column made its way to the newspaper you are reading, I kept a website where I chronicled my daily life with my young children. I originally posted this tale there. Unfortunately, that website, and all the digital content I created for it, have been lost to the never-ending vastness of cyberspace, so I will try to remember it the best I can. 

During a particularly cold winter I went outside to survey the property before another night with below freezing temps. While checking the spigots and crawl space vents, I encountered a black vulture sitting on the stoop leading up to the front porch. Of course, I wasn’t expecting a giant bird on the steps, and I was almost on top of the creature before I noticed it. 

Letting out a noise that was part hiss, part grunt, it alerted me of its presence. I’m sure I said some things I shouldn’t repeat. The thing had already made a mess on the steps and, grabbing a nearby broom, I shooed it toward the tree line. It hobbled away like a little monster before taking flight into a tree. 

I continued my rounds and afterwards returned to the front of the house to clean the mess left by my unwanted visitor. To my dismay, it had returned and was nestled into the juniper shrubs. I pushed it back into the yard, but this time it just hissed and hobbled out into the open and bullheadedly stood its ground. 

The vulture appeared to be in good health, though I’m no veterinarian. I didn’t want to hurt the poor bird, but I certainly didn’t want it taking up shop in my front garden. So I did what any modern man would do – I took to the internet. 

Vultures have many rights in this fine republic of ours, being granted federal protection through the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918. Forcibly removing, killing or otherwise harming a vulture is strictly prohibited by law. Damaging or tampering with buzzard nests is also a no-no. Moving a sick or injured buzzard, quite possiblly like the one in my front yard, could only be done by trained, licensed professionals. Another quick search showed no certified avian rescues in my area. As the sun was setting, I realized there was nothing to be done on that chilly night. 

Once more I checked the front porch and it had returned to the step, like some supernatural force was drawing it there.  

 And I guess that was the case because the next day I found it dead. Its dying wish was to either aggravate me or sit by my front door. Whatever it was, mission accomplished. I didn’t want it to be fodder for other scavengers, so I buried it in the woods with all the honors I could give it. 

But I still don’t like vultures. 

You can reach Kyle Dominy at k.l.dominy@gmail.com or write to 115 South Jefferson Street Dublin Ga. 31021