Many biologists at Caltech, where I both worked and took classes, would bury their faces in their owls' necks to breathe in their delicate, sweet scent. Like all barn owls, the baby smelled like maple syrup but not as sweet, something closer to butterscotch and comfy pillow all in one. But this baby had nerve damage in one wing, so although he might one day be able to fly well enough to hunt sporadically, his wing could never build up to the level of endurance he would need to survive in the wild. Under normal circumstances, a rehabilitation center would have raised him using owl puppets to feed him and teach him to live in the wild, which is how biologists have raised endangered birds like sandhill cranes and the California condor that they intend to release. It seemed as if he had been assembled from the flotsam and jetsam of many different creatures. His scrawny body had two little nubs that would eventually become wings, and his ungainly pterodactyl-like head wobbled from side to side. His long, lanky legs stuck out awkwardly, and his oversized talons erratically scratched anyone who held him. He was the most wonderful creature I'd ever seen, gorgeous in his helplessness. I was smitten beyond reason by his hopelessly goofy appearance. His eyes weren't open yet, and except for a tuft of white down feathers on his head and three rows of fluff along his back, his body was pink and naked. The little owl was so tiny and helpless he couldn't even lift his head or keep himself warm.

He mentioned that there was an owl with an injured wing, and said, 'Stacey, he needs a permanent home.' I'd been working at Caltech (California Institute of Technology) for about a year when one of the scientists called me into his office. On a r ainy Valentine's Day morning in 1985, I fell in love with a four-day-old barn owl.

Wesley the Owl by Stacey O'Brien