The Death and Life of Julia the Owl
My dog and I were wrapping up our usual walk in the woods, minutes from home. Something in the path ahead looked different, odd somehow. I spotted a gray mass, darker and grayer than the surrounding dust. Reeling in my sniffing pup, I stepped closer to carefully observe what was apparently an animal, frozen in the stillness of death. Cat? Fawn? No, it was a bird, a BIG one, the fine dry soil obscuring the wide outline. Oh, and wow, look at that – two yellow talons, broad, furred with feathers. An owl! I blinked hard a few times, and fought instinctive waves of repulsion in order to get a better look, my nerves alight, holding back a very curious and confused dog. My right hand gripped the Queen Anne’s lace stems I had been picking. In a sudden impulse of grief, I dropped the flowers on top of the body before rushing back down the trail toward home.
For the rest of the day, I couldn’t keep this owl out of my thoughts. How did it die? How long had it been lying there? Why has nobody else said or done anything? Why hadn’t the dogs gotten to it? What about the local coyotes? What should I do now? Kick it into the brush to decay? I considered doing that. It didn’t seem like something I would do. I knew that every time I walked by I would think about what I had decided. No. What should I do? What was right?
I remembered my regular nightly walks with my husband. We live right where suburbia meets forest. Looking west, behind the grassy backyard fences, these woods cut a jagged black line of Douglas Firs across the velvety gray sky. And if we got quiet, and there were no cars, sometimes we would hear, deep in the dark, hoo-hoo. Hoo-hoooo. Who are you?
Since I was having so much trouble deciding, I posted on a neighborhood Facebook group, and someone suggested calling the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife. Great idea, I thought, calling the first number that came up in search which was the Clackamas office. It was a summery Friday, after 3 pm, but I did get a nice person on the phone who very interested in my find. I described the bird, and judging by my description we both theorized that it was a great horned owl, a female. She explained that it was possible to get the bird tested for rat poison (an unfortunately common cause of unintended raptor poisoning) and even mark her on a map to track patterns and clusters of related deaths in the area. But time was ticking by, and ideally the body would be no more than a few days old in order to be of any use in that regard. She did say it was my option and I could also just move it off the trail with gloves if I wanted to do that. I wish I could say that, at this point, my mission was clear, and I was decisively set into motion – let’s go! pick her up! get her body in to be tested! But I still hesitated. There was no normal procedure, nothing expected of me, nobody really had noticed her in the first place, and nobody cared what I did. I waited and thought some more about what to do, and where to go, should I decide. There was an ODFW office closer to me, on Sauvie Island….hmm. I called back, and asked if anyone could help me at the other location. “Yes,” she said warmly, “I would be happy to refer you to a friend of mine at the Sauvie Island office – his name is Peter. And you can always drop my name – it’s Julia.”
Julia.
YES.
I called ODFW Sauvie Island and got Peter on the phone. He was also interested, and even promised to stay a little after closing time so that he could see the owl. I grabbed a pair of old kitchen gloves and a big black garbage bag, and set off down the dusty trail in my flipflops and sunhat. Turning that bend, I opened my eyes wide in expectation. Yes, she, “Julia,” was still there – whole and undisturbed, in flowered repose. I opened the crinkly bag wide and set it over her, tucking the ends in and gathering the package without touching one feather. Judging by her size, I expected the weight of a Thanksgiving turkey…but the bag swung free from my arm, light as anything. It was hot, around 90 degrees, and I was sweating as I huffed up the trail with her.
As I drove north through twisting roads, I felt like an ambulance driver. My back seats were both down to allow plenty of room – there was more than enough space but it felt right to transport the body without anything touching her. Frustrated at the increasing rush hour traffic, even here in the hills, I gripped the steering wheel and felt tight in my stomach. Hurry, gotta make it, gotta make it. Julia, I’ve got you.
Luckily the views were incredible as I zoomed across Highway 30, then crossed the Multnomah channel, where small white boats danced across the glittering blue waves. The road passed busy farms and sun-drenched fields, and followed the waterway north. I arrived at the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife, at 5:10 pm. Coming up to the small office with the garbage bag in my arms, I called out to the woman at the front desk, “Thank you for staying open!” She replied briskly, letting me know that Peter was waiting for me around the back.
Behind the rustic outbuildings was a dirt lot, plus a few offices and darkened workshops, open to the air. A young man introduced himself, and said with an earnest, practical tone, “Good, you brought it. Let’s see this owl!” I followed him into one of the jumbled work areas, filled with tools and boxes. In my usual constantly-sorry way, I apologized: firstly, for being late, and secondly, for not realizing how long she had been laying there in a state of decay because she was so surprisingly lightweight. He assured me – “…don’t worry about it. All birds fly. All birds are light.”
Taking her out of the bag, he confirmed that she was a great horned owl by showing me her flat face and sightless amber eyes. Horrifying. Beautiful. He asked me to fill out a form with an approximate location and description. Peter asked me, “Do you have any pictures of her on the trail? Describe how you found it, and in what condition she was found.”
By this time I was open, interested. All hesitation was gone. I made it, and she was here. Now after her uncelebrated life of hunting and calling and silent flight – her death might be marked, might be remembered. Yes, I had taken a photo of her, marked by that temporary bouquet of white flowers “so the joggers and cyclists would continue to pass by safely – of course!” I reported, somewhat breathlessly, showing him my phone. “Her head was turned to the right, her talons up, her wings loose – neither tucked in nor spread.” I sent him the photo. He wanted to know everything, but there was so much we didn’t know, and only so much we could know. I imagined her falling. How did she fall? From what height? Was it sudden? Or was she seated quietly on a branch when she passed away- Away, away. As I said goodbye, I thought about that moment of departure.
I left, and drove back down beside the sparkling river.
Julia flies away again, even as I write this.
~For Joanna
