OPINION: Where the wild things are

So whatever happened to the Hootsworths? You may remember the family of Homer-area owls from the previous commentary “Owls in the family” (ADN, April 25, 2023).

In April 2023, proof of life emerged. As the single newborn owlet began to grow, we started calling him Junior.

My decision to refer to Junior as a male was not steeped in any solid empirical evidence whatsoever. Instead, I made this assignment only because by nature, it has always seemed to me that boys are clumsier than girls and perhaps even a tad less graceful. This observation of life just fits our owlet to a T, true or not.

Newborn owls don’t resemble anything like their adult counterparts. Instead, they are fuzzy billiard-ball-sized clumps of white feathery down, adorned with two pea-sized glossy black eyes separated by a beak no larger than a set of tweezer tips. Hidden beneath its body are the creature’s talons, each smaller than a rose thorn. Their hooked beak and eight scythe-shaped claws, both so harmless at first, grow quickly into the most fearsome of appendages, capable of tearing apart any living hare limb from limb.

The new family hung close to the nest until June, during which I was to bear witness to all manner of owlish behavior. The most fun was perhaps observing when Junior started exploring the world out beyond the safety of his nest. Many of Junior’s outings consisted of him teetering out onto a limb near the nest, then tottering as our little Jungle Jim practiced his balancing act of hopping from branch to branch as if the tree limbs were an endless maze of monkey bars. There, high up, the little feathered daredevil would inevitably fall. Well, kind of fall. “Tumble” would be a more accurate word to use, as he always managed to catch himself several branches down, where his self-arrests would usually end up with him dangling upside down. Once back in the nest, his mother (whom we’d named Weeps) would inspect her offspring for any damage. None detected, mother and baby would settle in together for an afternoon nap.

Sometime around the third week of June, Junior began gliding. Shortly thereafter, all three birds abandoned the nest.

The first few sightings of Junior’s new excursions were in the vicinity of our chicken coop. Day after day, he would hang close to the chickens, sometimes sitting for hours on top of their enclosure staring intently down at the birds beneath him. One afternoon, as my wife and I were watching Junior, who in turn was watching our chickens, she said to me, “I’d say your little buddy over there is either awfully fond of our chickens or just really the dumbest bird I’ve ever seen.”

“Might be a different story,” I said, in defense of Junior, “if he were on the other side of the wire.”

The next encounter with Junior was late at night. Both my wife and I were awakened by a sudden loud thumping noise coming from the roof of our garage. Springing out of bed, we both rushed over to our bedroom window, where we saw Junior madly beating his wings against the roof shingles as he tried to lug a small hare he had clutched in his talons up to the peak of our garage. Before reaching it, he lost his grip and the hare went bouncing back down off the roof, landing smack-dab in the middle of Teena’s favorite flower bed.

Owls don’t really walk so much as they waddle — like penguins, only without the dignity of the classic black-and-white tuxedo coats that penguins sport.

Instead of taking flight after its prey, Junior waddled, back down the roof, momentarily perched on the gutter then launched himself toward his meal, forgetting what his wings were designed for and crashing magnificently into the deceased hare. Recovering quickly, he hunched over his prize and spread his wings out, holding them open. “I wonder what that’s all about?” my wife asked.

“He’s just protecting what’s now his, probably from Weeps and Wol, who I suspect are nearby,” I replied.

With wings still splayed widely apart he began dragging the hare’s carcass out of Teena’s flower bed and, in the process, started knocking down all of her plants. At this point, Teena furiously began cranking open our bedroom window while yelling, “Hey you, get the hell out of my flowers!”

Unperturbed, Junior glanced up at my wife and gave her a look that could only be interpreted as, “And who the hell are you?” before throttling back up to his business at hand.

With that, my wife bolted from the bedroom to go chase Junior off. As I stood there, lamely watching him ruining Teena’s plants, I thought to myself, “She’s the boss lady, bub, who — unfortunate for you — you’re about to meet.”

As summer waxed and then waned, the Hootsworths were to become regulars in our neighborhood. Evidence of their presence could be seen in the numerous regurgitated pellets of crushed bone, vertebrae, teeth, hair, fur and thimble-sized skulls we’d occasionally find scattered about our yard.

Now, with the dead of winter upon us, the senior Hootsworths’ ritual mating calls have begun again, and the cycle of life once more renews itself. And with this comes the simple pleasure of still finding myself where the wild things are.

Pete Garay is a retired Marine pilot who lives in Homer with his wife, Teena, and their three children.

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