Bird of Prey

I watched in awe and disbelief as the owl descended vertically and noiselessly toward the unsuspecting little chihuahua. Then, as he sunk his talons into her fur and made his move, all hell broke loose. The little dog, ridiculously overweight and on her best day, temperamentally more like a piranha than a dog, erupted like a snapping turtle. She twisted like a pretzel, wriggling, snarling and fighting off the predator with everything she had. In a matter of seconds, the owl realized he'd misjudged the situation and was driven off. The chihuahua shook herself mightily and trotted off with an expression of undisguised contempt on her heart shaped face and a few feathers clinging to the corners of her mouth.

What broke my paralysis was the head on collision of two thoughts - first, the realization that her long haired-ness had probably saved her and how lucky that her groomer had been down with the flu this past week and second, the clearly mistaken notion that owls hunt only at night.

I ran for the yard like a madwoman. It was an uncommonly warm morning for January, the trees were littered with sparrows and cardinals and screeching blue jays. A trio of squirrels was doing their high wire act, chattering and chasing each furiously against a very blue sky but there was no sign of the owl.

The little chihuahua, intact and unharmed, played her game of pretending not to hear me calling and continued casually milling about the yard without a care in the world. I found myself envying her confidence and feeling vaguely sorry for the owl.