The real-life owl landed right outside my bedroom window. Even though it was the middle of the night, I was awake, thinking about everything that had happened that day, my cheeks smeared with old tears.
Wha-woo. Wha-woo.
I heard the owl before I saw it. I got out of bed and pulled back the curtains, and there it was, on a branch of the old sycamore tree. Dad’s been going on at our neighbors to cut the tree down for years, because it stretches across our yard and blocks out the sunlight, but on that night, I was glad it was there.
The owl was the most beautiful bird I’d ever seen: small and squat—perhaps just a baby—with brown feathers that looked like they’d been dusted in snow. It sat there, staring at me with its gold-flecked eyes, content to let me watch it through the window. Then a car drove past, its headlights blazing, which spooked the owl away.
I wasn’t expecting to see the bird again, but it came back the next night and the one after that. It would announce its arrival by hooting its calming song, and then it would just stare at me, mimicking my movements as I tilted my head from side to side.
On the evening of the fourth day, I took a tin of my black Lab Misty’s dog food and put a couple of spoonfuls on the windowsill outside my bedroom. I didn’t know what owls ate (other than mice, but I didn’t have any of those) but thought I might be able to tempt it with some liver chunks in jelly. The owl didn’t appear that night though. I left the dog food on the windowsill for a week, waking up each morning to check if any had been eaten, but the owl never returned.