Pipsqueak by Brian M. Wiprud Read Free Book Online Page B

particular bird might be on the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Flora & Fauna (CITES), Appendices I, II, & III, Title 50, Part 23, Subpart C. What all this means is that it is illegal to be in possession of, say, a bald eagle
living or dead . . . and all parts readily recognizable as parts or derivatives thereof
. . . . Exceptions are made in some cases if you are (or supply) an accredited institute of learning, in which case you have to fill in a lot of confusing paperwork—confusing because much of it is scripted for housing live animals. I’ve done it for many of my mounts that are endangered or protected species, and it requires crossing out and correcting the language of the form itself. While I have sold to various museums, I also have mounts like Fred that are permitted based on the provision of proof they were harvested before 1972 when CITES went into effect.
    I support the protection of endangered, protected, and migratory bird species; Dudley does too. But as anybody who watches the evening news can tell you, the law is often nonsensically inflexible in some areas while alarmingly permissive in others. For example, if you find a dead chickadee—one that croaked on its own—you are not permitted to keep it, much less have it mounted. If you find a hawk feather or a gull skull, you may not keep it. Strictly by the letter of the law, these items must be turned over to the authorities so they can be destroyed, even if you can provide documentation that you just found them. And birds, like all animals, die quite regularly as a matter of course, completely free of human murderous intent.
    Like most of the citizenry, I’ll go along with the law as long as it makes common sense and as long as it is enforceable. In New York City, we’ve got only a couple of special cops out there policing almost eight million potential violators of Title 50 and CITES. They’re kinda busy busting folks hustling bins of fresh tiger penises and rhino horns. Chances of their getting around to tracking down that blue-jay feather in your curio case are exactly nil. And I think if you tried to give them a dead hummingbird for a proper government-approved disposal, they’d tell you to give it a flume ride to alligator land.
    Which all brings us to last January, when Angie and I found a dead jay lying peacefully on the snow, waiting to be molested by the next passing house cat. Damn pretty bird too, so I brought it to Dudley for mounting. It’s mainly for our permanent collection, and I can’t see getting in dutch as long as I don’t try to sell it.
     
    Dudley is fifty-one and looks like a bulldog. Brown and bowlegged, with big forearms, a prominent jaw, and furrowed brow, he is completely oblivious to his canine appearance. Unlike a bulldog, though, his forthright demeanor is mostly attributable to his whiz-kid brain. He made a hell of a foreman when we met at jury duty on a whiplash case eight years ago. But our friendship didn’t really take off until we met again at our next tour of duty. See, since they drag you in to jury duty every so many years, it’s not unusual to see some of the same people caught in the same cycle. This time, we weren’t on the same jury, and it wasn’t taboo to eat lunch together (they’re afraid you’ll gab about the case—a no-no).
    “Best jay mount you’ll ever see, you old rag-picker!” Dudley pointed a thick finger at me from his workbench as I entered the loft. He was at his computer, which was neatly arranged with all its hardware—modems, zip drives, zap drives, what have you—on a rolltop desk. Reclining in an old wooden four-caster I got for him on Park Avenue, his outfit made him look something like a bulldog would as a southern sheriff: red suspenders and matching Dickies khaki work shirt and pants.
    Wainscoting encircled the room, and it was topped with a ledge boasting perhaps fifty domed songbird mounts. Above them, dozens of framed photos and