The Eagle, the Road, and the Screech of Freedom.

Sometimes, compassion doesn’t come with credentials.
Sometimes, it just comes from love — raw, instinctive, and human.

It started with a photo. I posted a picture of a bunny I had gently petted — a simple, sweet moment. But it sparked something I didn’t expect. A woman from Massachusetts, who holds a wildlife license, reported me. She accused me of doing what she claimed to do “legally,” though her way, in my view, involves caging animals, breaking their spirits, and parading them for profit.

I don’t have a license. I just have love.

Facebook — surprisingly — sided with me this time. But the backlash didn’t end there. She and her followers began harassing me and my community, twisting something pure into something ugly.

And while all that noise played out online, something very real happened on a quiet road.

There was a dead bunny in the street. A Golden Eagle swooped down to claim the body — nature doing what it has always done. But a car came too fast around a blind corner. It hit the eagle.

The driver kept going.

I stopped.

The bird was alive, but just barely. She sat still in the middle of the road, injured, vulnerable. And despite the size and power of this creature — talons that could tear flesh, a beak built for survival — I knelt down until we were face to face.

In that moment, she could have ripped me apart.

But she didn’t.

We made eye contact. And something passed between us — not fear, not dominance. Just trust. I picked her up gently, cradled her like she was something sacred, whispered that she would be okay, and carried her to safety.

I thought help would come quickly. Best Friends Animal Sanctuary was just 20 miles away in Kanab, Utah. I called, explained everything — the urgency, the heat, the eagle. But their response? Indifference.

They said I’d need to bring the eagle myself and cover the costs. I told them I had no experience moving a wild raptor. I told them I was afraid of what might happen — to her, or to me — inside a car. Still, they said no.

So I did what I could. I sat with her. For four hours.

I gave her food and water. She took both from my hand. I massaged her wing gently, spoke softly, told her again and again that she wasn’t alone, that she mattered, that it would be okay.

And then… a miracle.

Suddenly, she stood. Stronger. Steadier.

She jumped. Flapped.

And flew.

Not just a few feet — but high. Powerful. Free.

She circled once above us, let out a triumphant screech that echoed through the hot desert air, and disappeared into the sky.

We called her Goldie.

This wasn’t about politics, permits, or who has the right paperwork.
This was about a living soul that needed someone — anyone — to stop, to care, to see her.

And I did.

I’m no expert. I’m not certified.

But I love animals.