Grant and Dolly were an ancient couple who lived about a mile from my childhood home. I know they were a bit older than my grandma, which means they were born in the 1880s. They seemed like nice folks, but since they shuffled off this mortal coil when I was around ten years old, I recall but a few salient facts about them. Those being:
- Grant died from gangrene, the result of getting stuck in the leg with a manure-covered pitchfork.
- Dolly made good candy.
- The couple inadvertently traumatized me into believing that hoot owls were displaced souls intent on stealing mine.
The traumatization stems from a Halloween visit to Grant and Dolly’s rural bungalow. As the elderly duo dropped goodies in my sack, a great horned owl commenced to hooting. “Hear that?” Grant asked me, Dolly grinning like a Cheshire cat and nodding her head in full support. “He’s asking, ‘Who, who, who are ya?’ Better watch out he doesn’t snatch ya up.”
Now, you may have noticed that neither of my antediluvian neighbors uttered a single syllable about ghosts or demons or soul stealin’. But, since my mother tended to not infrequently invoke warnings about the dangers of Satan, not to mention the eternal damnation awaiting those who misbehaved, I was predisposed to jump to conclusions. If I might offer a bit of advice for those with small children, it’s probably unwise to convince your kids they’ll burn in everlasting hellfire for talking back, thinking bad thoughts, or whispering in class.
But I digress. We were talking about owls. This five-decade-old memory surfaced because I’m being stalked by one. I regularly see this beast, a great horned owl of immense size, perched on the edge of my shed, watching me at midday as I walk down the road or mow the lawn. He viciously attacked my brand-new mower after I parked it in the aforementioned shed, tearing the seat to ribbons. He’d previously mutilated the canvas top of a 1963 Pontiac LeMans convertible. He’s dive-bombed my head half a dozen times.
But, I’ve never thought about killing him. The utter illegality of such an act is not so much a deterrence as is the truckload of bad luck that would inevitably follow. The old Ozarkers say that hoot owls (aka great horned) are imbued with all sorts of witchy powers. Dispatching one, with or without prejudice, is simply something one does not do if he or she values life, health, and sanity.
So, as is true with most of life, I have zero control over the whims of my resident hoot owl. I can get a case of the heebie-jeebies when he stares me down or tries to sink a claw into my hat, or I can thank him for eating the barn rats. I can worry that seeing him often in broad daylight is a sign of impending doom, or I can assume he’s suffering from avian insomnia.
That said, I’ll never fully believe that my owl is a benevolent creature whose interest in consuming souls is far secondary to consuming rabbits, skunks, and rodents. I don’t trust any creature whose head can perform an Exorcist-style, 180-degree turn. But, I guess things could be worse.
He could have had pitchfork scars on his leg.
This column was originally published in the May 2021 edition of Missouri Life magazine.
