The Ancient and Noble Sport of Falconry

Some say horseracing is the sport of kings. I personally find that to be malarkey. I've been to too many racetracks crawling with touts wearing loudly-patterned polyester sport coats to find anything regal about that pursuit. No, my preference is for falconry.

There really is nothing like launching a raptor, God's own airborne killing-machines, from your wrist, watching it soar majestically through the great blue, thrilling to the dive, and then watching it rip a varmint into strips of jerky.

I remember fondly the days when my father, eschewing more mundane father-son bonding activities like throwing a baseball around and fishing, took me out into the hills with vicious birds of prey and taught me the fine art of letting a creature more efficiently evolved for the purpose do your killing for you. Hawks. The hit men of the animal world.

And of course, I'd be remiss if I didn't introduce my children to the practice. Here's a snapshot of my daughter on Day One of Falconry.


The more cynical among you may scoff at the idea of introducing children to falconry by using parakeets, but as the Confucians say, "The journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step."

Also, these are a particularly vicious, feral, and carnivorous subspecies of parakeet.

Well, it wasn't long before the kiddies were ready for the real thing. Here's a snapshot of the lil' poppets and their old man out on the windswept glens of Palmerwood's northern reaches, preparing to hunt with airborne predators. I prefer the traditional Saker falcon; Intrepid Stella A. favors her Harpy Eagle, and Young Leo J. likes... well, we're not exactly sure what it is, but it followed him home one day and he begged to keep it. They've formed quite a bond, Young Leo J. and his... whatever it is.

Sharp-eyed minions will notice the exquisite cut of our matching family hunting-tweeds, tailored expressly for us by MacGlanhorbernathyghannitie & Sons of Edinburgh.

And you'll pardon a proud papa's kvelling, I'm sure, but I just couldn't have been more pleased at the children's success on their first day of falconry. Why, they already managed to rid Palmerwood of two particularly dangerous varmints: Intrepid Stella A.'s Harpy Eagle snared Karl Rove's gelatinous presence in its talons, and Young Leo J.'s... whatever it is nabbed a squirming, writhing David Koch, one half of the nefarious, democracy-undermining Koch Brothers!

"Good God's Urge, Daddy," Intrepid Stella A. whispered, horrorstruck, "do we really have varmints that horrifying lurking around our magnificent, historic, sumptuous yet unfortunately-named country estate?"

"Not any more," I comforted her with satisfaction. "Not any more, thanks to the birds. Or the...well, whatever it is that your brother likes to hunt with."

After we disinfected the birds' talons (risk of fungal infection, you know, from having touched something so unclean), a friend of mine pointed out that David Koch's anal musk-glands would probably fetch a pretty penny from practitioners of Chinese folk remedies. He made an excellent point, so I had my gamekeeper, Oliver de Baliviere, remove them. Without anesthesia. The sound of the procedure was magical.

Once Mr. Koch's anal musk-glands had been removed for sale in the markets of Shanghai, I had Mr. de Baliviere chop up the day's catch and throw it to my herd of prize polled pedigreed Eurasian wild boars.

Don't fret, friends... I had it done humanely.