WHEN I PULL into the driveway of Falconry Excursions in Goshen, New York, it feels like I’m visiting a nice family home — because I am. This is where falconer Tom Cullen IV grew up and where his parents still live — along with 130 birds of 22 different species, including eagles, owls, falcons, hawks, and vultures.

Once inside, Cullen hands me one of those big leather gloves I’ve only seen in movies, and places an eastern screech owl named Coco on my arm. “After years of working with them, you can’t help but get attached,” he says. Staring into Coco’s massive eyes, the lids opening and closing at a pace so languid and luxurious as to seem animatronic, it’s easy to see why.

“They’re like a cross between a cat and a dog,” he says of the bird. Canine in terms of their penchant for reward-based training, but feline in their personality. “I work for her,” he says with a laugh, pointing to Coco. A pygmy falcon that’s been flitting about the kitchen lands atop my head. Tom tells me that, unlike other birds of prey, the pygmy falcon is a social species and nests in groups. It’s such a light little thing that I barely notice it.

The son of two master falconers, Cullen was born into his livelihood. The family passion for falconry began when Cullen’s father, Tom Cullen III, saw “Rusty and the Falcon,” a made-for-TV episode of “Walt Disney Presents” that first aired in the ’50s. The episode — in which a young boy discovers an injured falcon, brings it back to good health, and trains it to be a hunting bird — sparked an instant fascination that eventually led the elder Cullen to meet Dr. Heinz Meng, the first person to breed peregrine falcons successfully in captivity. Cullen’s interest evolved into a breeding operation of his own, and he launched a pest bird abatement company in 1996. Falconry Excursions, which offers visitors a variety of experiences with birds of prey, came two years later.

The younger Cullen tells me that the tradition of falconry is thought to be at least 4,000 years old, because it appears in “The Epic of Gilgamesh.” “In that story, the falconry they do is exactly the same as we do today,” he says, adding that some estimates put the practice at 8,000 to 10,000 years old. (“Falcon” is pronounced FALL-kin in the Cullen household, and seemingly anywhere people take their falconry seriously.)

Back outside, Cullen brings over a Eurasian eagle-owl named Boogie that looks like the very dictionary definition of an owl. He sits there stoic but clearly scanning every inch of his surroundings for movement. As we walk across the front lawn, Cullen advises me to carry him on my arm like a glass of water, nice and steady. When I hand the eagle-owl back, Cullen prompts Boogie to show off his impressive wingspan, which is easily five or six feet wide. It’s hypnotizing to watch.

As we stroll back, I ask Cullen how he manages to cultivate human relationships given how much of his time the birds require. “You should ask my girlfriend that,” he says with a laugh. “I very rarely get away.” His work hours are generally dawn till dark, and the staff of Falconry Excursions only consists of a handful of people. “It’s quite crazy, but I like being busy,” he says. “I’m the luckiest guy ever.” He pulls out another bit of food and calls to the hawk once more. The sound of the bells grows louder, the bird lands on his arm, and the two make their way back home.