Page 142 of My Cowboy Freedom
“He’s a decent kid who had a tough break. He got under all our skin.”
“I miss hearing him play his guitar.”
Foz nodded.
There wasn’t much more to say.
I picked up my hat and left through the mudroom. As I walked back to the bunkhouse, I listened to the night sounds at the Rocking C. If I hadn’t been keeping my eyes open for anything out of the ordinary, I wouldn’t have seen the dog—one of the border Collies—nosing around in the horseshoe pits by the bunkhouse.
When I got closer, I found my owlet.
There you are.
I hesitated, listening to see if there were other owls around.
The owlet looked to be a fledgling. Old enough to give flight a try and fail. One growl from the dog froze it with fear. She growled when I got close too, but the Rocking C’s dogs were well-trained and obedient. When I called her off with a whistle, she slunk back to my side and sat.
Luna loved nature documentaries and we’d watched some on owls, so I knew better than to simply pick the owlet up. I figured it for a barn owl. It had that heart-shaped face. They’re crappy nest builders—they’ll take over any empty hole. The chicks can get crowded and impatient. When they’re older, they stand on the side of the nest and flap their wings like crazy. All the babies want to get in on the fun and falling out isn’t uncommon.
If you know which nest an owl fell out of, it’s best to put them back in. But sometimes their nests can be hard to find. And even young owls can do what this little guy—gal?—did just fine on its own. They skitter around and climb by sort of running up the side of a tree while beating their wings. They can get a long way from their nest but they can also get back up in a tree, where screeching relentlessly will bring their parents flying back to feed them.
If their parents are still alive.
At any rate, I had no clue where the owlet had come from and when I approached it, it tried to wake up the dead.
The dog didn’t seem to want to eat the thing but I didn’t want to leave it for other predators either. I sat on the picnic bench, trying to decide my best course of action.
A cat or coyote could come along and nature would take its course. There was always the threat of death. I could take it in, feed it or whatever. I could try to help. But an owl like that, it’s always going to do better when nurtured by its own kind. I could do everything right and it might survive. But it wouldn’t thrive.
That’s how things weresupposedto work.
But while an owl ought to be left to its parents, sometimes you couldn’t count on people to be willing or able to care fortheiryoung. You couldn’t count on adult humans to want what was best for their offspring any more than you could count on an owl staying in its nest.
I didn’t take the owl’s picture for Rock because I didn’t want to startle the thing, but I wished he could have been there to see it.
I felt like a tool, but I said a few words of prayer for it before I carefully picked it up and put it back on a branch in a nearby tree.
I could leave the owl there and hope it would be fine.
Rock was with his parents and I didn’t feel nearly as optimistic about that.
Rock never did answer any of my texts.
My calls went straight to voice mail.
The following morning, I knew I had to do whatever it took to find out why Rock wasn’t answering my calls, with or without Foz’s and Elena’s help.
