The call came around 18:10.

On the wife's cell phone.

Dispatch, relaying a call from a fireman for one of the big gas companies. Apparently, lightning hit one of the big condensate tanks in the gas fields, and blew it up.

One of the tanks that had hawks nesting on top of it. Fireman's got three burned hawks in his truck, and is headed towards town. From about 45 miles away.

Problem is, they're responding to another lightning-caused fire at the county line, and would like someone to take these birds off his hands as soon as possible. Neither of the local wardens is available. Each at opposite corners of the continent (literally... swimming in the Keys and fishing off the Kenai). The next closest warden isn't close at all today, in University Town.

Ooookay. That leaves me.

Problem is, we just left University Town less than an hour ago. We're at milepost 247, 32 miles on the other side of town from the fireman.

And that's we, as in me, the wife and youngest son, not me and the usual heeler sisters. We're heading back from his orientation at the university. Wasn't planning on working at all, today.

But I guess I am.

Forty-four minutes later, we've arrived at home, I've changed into uniform, loaded the animal carrier, and I'm headed in to the Sheriff's Office. Where I actually beat the fireman and his wife by almost ten minutes. Sitting in the radio dispatch room, watching the rain falling outside. (A good soaker. They report the rain put out the second fire, and is running over some gas field roads. Talking about sand-bagging a piece of the interstate.)

Now, a deputy and I have been discussing the hawks' future as we wait. Burned feathers aren't a problem, you just gotta care for the bird until new ones come in. But if they've got skin burns, or worse, burns into the tendons that are right there under the skin, well, there's not much hope. The bird may live, but it'll never be releasable.

Soon the fireman and his wife arrive, bearing three hawks in a blanket-covered plastic toolbox. They've got a digital camera with pictures of the exploded tank collapsed on its side, the pit around it filled with flames. But the pit did exactly what it supposed to. All the spill and fire stayed inside the berm. They found the hawks on the outside. No telling if any ended up inside the flames.

I am scared for what I might see as I pull the blanket back, to find...

Three nestling ferruginous hawks glaring back at me.

Which is a good thing, because it means they're alive and alert. But they're not active. Just laying there, panting heavily, over-heated from the hour-long ride in a tight space. The couple point out several blackened burn marks on the birds, but in truth, most look like oil or tar to me.

The birds are inspected without touching. Two still have a little down on top of their heads, and a few downy chick feathers sticking out on the body. The third, which is the largest and least active, has only a few downy feathers left. Another week or two and these things would have fledged out of their nest, and off the tank.

Soon the dispatcher's husband and daughters arrive, and also get thrilled at such a close view. After more pictures are taken, it is time to transfer the birds to my carrier and give them a closer inspection. Which, because of the continuing rain, takes place in the staircase.

First bird is, well, basically fine. Wings work. Talons work. Put it in the carrier, and it stands up on its legs and glares out the side of the cage. Likewise with number two. Can't really find any burns at all, although there could be some under the smudges of oil.

Number three, the largest nestling, flaps its wings to show us they're both functional. And tries hard to grab my fingers with its talons. All okay. But it falls back on its haunches (if birds had haunches, but you know what I mean) instead of standing up straight, so there may be some damage to this one.

But still, this is great. A whole lot better than what I was expecting.

Call the Audubon bird rehab folks in Central City, but get no answer. Which is highly unusual. So, to home we go. Where the young ferrugs get a dinner of pronghorn and karo-water.

Exotic treats that they would never have in the wild. By this time, the smaller two just want to lay down and mope, but they both eat and drink. The larger one's legs are working great now, as it hops around trying to rip the bars off the sides, or tear down the door. But it doesn't eat hardly at all.

Got another rehab birder in River Town that will take the three raptors tomorrow if I can't get ahold of the folks in Central City. So we'll see how the trio is in the morning, make some calls, and figure out which long drive the sisters and I get to make.

Some prairie pink from Wednesday: