Wild Night

At least we had seen the deer, if only briefly before it had collided with my Mom’s fabled Mercury Sable. The owl, however, had come out of nowhere. Screeching into the beam of light thrown by the headlights and slapping against the windshield the next second.

For a few moments, time seemed to slow down. The seconds crept by as our young family watched, transfixed. The owl lay on the pavement helpless, drenched in the white light of the high beams. We took a collective deep breath as one large, feathered wing was raised in a pathetic attempt to take flight. The next second, Mom had started screaming. Time took on the sort of fast-forward motion that it does whenever you wish you had an extra minute to think. Chaos ensued.

Adamant that we couldn’t leave the beautiful bird to die in the road, my Mom persuaded Dad to get out of the car to see what could be done. My Dad, having quickly fallen asleep between the deer collision and the renewed assault on our car, and only fully aware of the most recent onslaught of the natural world once said chaos was in progress, reluctantly stepped out of the car. The lack of enthusiasm my Dad had for most animals was on full display as he observed the bird from afar for a few moments. With the help of my Mother’s opinion floating out of the open driver’s window, Dad concluded that the bird was not going to be flying anywhere by itself anytime soon. A fresh wave of hysteria crashed over us from the front seat. The owl simply could not be left in the road to be hit by another car. My Dad had to somehow procure the bird so we could take it home with us. A wayward Wal-Mart shopping bag was used to scoop the bird into a cardboard box we had found in the trunk.

The remainder of the car ride home was tense. The barn owl, looking both terrified and ready to attack, lay cradled in its cardboard nest at my Dad's feet. The smiley face on the side of the bright yellow shopping bag still wrapped around the bird seemed to glare at us and mock our sense of terror. My Mom, realizing that there was now a wild animal in the car with her three young children started to second-guess the decision to drive the bird home. She suggested that perhaps it would be best to leave my Dad and the owl on the side of the road while she drove us home. My Dad’s eyes didn’t leave the bird's as he quietly said, “Peggy, just keep driving”. My sister, sobbing in the seat next to me, was throwing a litany of accusations at Mom. From not paying attention to the road, to killing a majestic wild animal, my sister hurled it all at my Mom. The insults were not well received by the front seat. A screaming match as can only occur between a young teen and her mother was carried out. Dad’s eyes never strayed from the bird as he issued a low and constant hiss. A quiet plea for everyone to shut-up. My brother, being too young to understand what was happening, simply cried.

I’m not sure how we made it home that night without hitting a third wild animal or being attacked by the petrified bird we carried in our small car. I just know we did. We housed the bird in the addition that was being built but did not yet have a passageway into the lived-in section of our home. I’m sure my parents provided the bird with some sort of food and comfort overnight, although I remember going to bed that night with an overwhelming feeling that we would wake up to fresh roadkill in our soon-to-be new living room.

Amazingly, the owl survived that night. And the next. And the three after that. It wasn’t until five days after “The Night the Wildlife Attacked”, as it later came to be known, that a woman from a nearby Audubon society came to our house to rescue and rehabilitate the creature.

Months later, our family would receive a picture of “our owl” perched on the arm of his rescuer. The accompanying letter told us that he would be released back into the wild one night that week. For years, my Mother would proudly show the picture to anyone who asked (it was displayed on our kitchen cabinets next to our report cards and a picture of my sister at her First Communion) and recount the time she helped rescue an owl as if she hadn’t played a critical role in its injury to begin with.

Years have passed since that night. Recently, as I lay down for bed in a different house, one that has probably never played host to a barn owl, I hear the familiar hoot across a snowy field. I’m reminded of our owl. Of the night the wildlife attacked. Remembering the incident, I laugh. I quickly dial my Mom and ask her to tell me about the time she rescued an owl.