An Extended Family

In my family, the idea of an extended family has been familiar for generations.

I'm not talking about multiple marriages with children from first, second or third weddings, but about furry, feathered or scaled presences that have been an integral part of the Family.

My paternal grandfather, even though I lost him very early, shaped my life. He was a gentle, sunny man, whose presence brought cheerfulness and security. For me, he was always there! He was a passionate hunter, but also a deep connoisseur of Nature. He loved all animals, with whom he had a very particular relationship.

He used to take me into the woods, teach me to recognise plants, and tell me stories that enchanted me. He was often accompanied by a blackbird, which he had raised and then released, and which my grandfather had taught to sing the waltz of good cheer.

Even the family's dogs and cats followed my grandfather everywhere with spontaneous obedience. His charisma was contagious, and his way of communicating with Nature was extraordinary. He could perfectly imitate the calls of many birds and understood the meaning of every chirp, but his way of talking with animals happened mostly in silence. Anyone who keeps animals of the same species at home knows that they communicate with each other continuously, in silence, and use their voice only on particular occasions.

Cats, for instance, meow mainly to communicate with us, because they know we can't hear their telepathy — the same goes for dogs and for most animals — but with my Grandfather it was different: the telepathy was constant.

My father, too, taught me a great deal; he always had dogs and I grew up among them. But when I met my wife, I was living alone, and she told me she would come and live with me on condition that we got a dog. Said and done — but that was only the beginning. Within a few years we found ourselves with 3 children, 5 dogs, 4 cats, 7 rabbits, 3 horses, 3 budgerigars, 2 fighting fish and 2 tortoises.

That was the closest family; the extended one, instead, has seen a variety of species pass through worthy of a zoo. Some of these presences left an indelible memory.

ANASTASIA was a little owl, found injured one November morning on Monte Orello. I brought her home, cared for and fed her for several months. At first she stayed in a fairly large cage, then, once she started flying about, we gave her a room of her own, from which we let her out for every family gathering. With a little patience, she was accepted by the dogs and cats too.

We live on a small hill, and at dusk I would put her in her cage and carry her onto the terrace, from which she loved to watch the view.

For dinner we would let her loose in the living room, where she begged food from every member of the family, flying from shoulder to shoulder. Having a little owl in the house was an experience that taught me a great deal. Aside from the charm of that way she had of turning her head, her pleasure in being with us and in understanding the family's dynamics was almost moving. She had become the house's absolute star, and she loved every minute of it.

One evening in late April I carried her onto the terrace again, but this time I opened the cage door and sat down a few metres away. She was ready to return to Nature. That's the moment I understood what my grandfather used to feel. Anastasia stared at me, astonished, and I clearly sensed her saying to me: “Oh look, you've left the door open!”, and in silence I answered, “Yes, I know...”.

Then she perched on the entrance of the cage and looked at me again: “Watch it, I'm escaping…”, and I replied, “Go on, this is the moment...”. A few moments later she flew onto the railing. The sun was setting, and she looked out at the endless horizon of freedom. She stayed there a few minutes, thinking, then finally understood and said to me: “So you really do want to set me free…”, looked deep into my eyes, then opened her wings and flew perfectly all the way to the branch of a pine tree a stone's throw away. By now she was a small shape in the distance, but I could feel her eyes fixed on me and her silent voice telling me many things, which boiled down to: “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”. Then darkness came, and she was gone.

When my wife and I explained to the children that we had “freed” their friend, they weren't happy, and we all felt a little wistful.

The following night, and every night for at least a month, Anastasia came back. She would perch on the branches outside our window and sing at the top of her voice. Little owls make all sorts of calls, but it's often a mixed racket that makes sleep impossible.

After the first few nights we began to let her know we wanted to sleep, and the concerts grew sparser over time, but she kept coming back for years, and it was always a joy.

The incredible thing is that yesterday, right after writing these lines, a little owl came back again to make its usual calls at the window. It can't be her — too many years have passed — but Nature is mysterious, and perhaps we are all “in touch” with each other somehow.

MARO, on the other hand, was a newborn mouflon lamb, found on the peaks of the Calanche by a young Swiss family, with a broken leg wedged between the rocks. He was losing blood and bleating desperately.

Photo: Elba Report

After calling the Park authorities, who immediately offered to put him down, they turned to the vet who, having seen the looks on the couple's children's faces, gave first aid free of charge, splinted the leg, and then thought it best to call my wife. In short, we were in for almost a month of bottle-feeding with goat's milk, day and night.

I would never have thought that a mouflon only a few days old, still with its umbilical cord attached, could show such a determined character. Determined to survive, determined to heal, determined to love and be loved, but also to be respected.

As soon as he arrived home he charged head-first at the dogs, who were twice his size. Once things were sorted out, there were no more problems. All friends.

He slept in a small pen in the garden, but was otherwise always in the house. Faced with Maro's gaze, my wife melted completely: a Mother's Love.

With Maro, as with other young animals, my wife always had better telepathy than me.

By the time Maro was out of danger, he no longer remembered being a mouflon — we were his family. We understood we couldn't keep him, but releasing him on Elba wouldn't have worked either.

We were helped by the Lipu Cruma of Livorno, a wildlife rescue centre I had already worked with years before. I took Maro to them, and they fell in love with him too. I still remember his look before we said goodbye; I left with a heavy heart, but I knew he was in good hands.

From Livorno they kept us informally updated, and after a short while Maro was released into a large, fenced and protected reserve near Grosseto, where he joined a herd of mouflon, and I hope he's still living in peace. Several times we felt the temptation to go and visit him, but my wife and I always told the children it was better not to, for his own good.

In our hearts, though, perhaps things were a little different. How would we have taken it if he hadn't recognised us, or paid us any mind?

Perhaps we preferred to remember him trotting happily towards us, whenever he saw the bottle.