Back in the day - in the 70s, before I was born - my mom and dad lived on the Tahola Tribe reservation, out on the Washington coast. How they wound up there, I'm not sure. I'm guessing there was some kind of incentive to lure teachers into certain rural areas. My dad taught science at the local high school and says that for that reason he was the de facto village "scientist" which somehow also made him the unofficial town veterinarian. Mom has many old stories including coming home to find an oil-stained duck swimming in the tub (dad always interrupts her to insist it was a merganser), a raccoon recovering in the laundry room and many other tales of convalescing critters - I forget all the stories. Except this one.
Somebody from town sighted a large, white owl floundering in the sand, out on the beach. Snowy owls don't usually venture this far south, being a true arctic species, so to see one at all is a rare treat, their bright white plumage standing out in stark contrast against our dark landscapes.
The ailing owl was captured and taken to dad at the beginning of the weekend.
Nobody knew what was wrong with the bird, it did not appear to be injured, just sick. Dad tried to feed it, but it would not eat. Because of the weekend the nearest vet - which was hours away - was closed, and Seattle offices did not answer their phones. He placed a final call to the professor or ornithology at the University of Washington and hoped the bird would live long enough for some answers to come back.
On Monday morning, he found the bird dead. A few hours later, his phone call was returned and he then learned the proper technique to force feed a hungry bird. Next time, I guess.
Dad now believes the owl starved to death. Sadly, he learned, this is a common fate for snowy owls who travel this far south of their usual hunting grounds. Their bright white color makes it difficult for them to sneak up on prey. And they require a huge calorie intake to even have a chance to make the trek back to their homes in Russia, Alaska and northern Canada.
So he took the limp owl to the local taxidermist (interesting that there was a local taxidermist, but not a vet) where he was met at the door and told to take the federally protected bird anywhere but here. According to the taxidermist, killing a snowy owl or trading their feathers can bring heavy fines and can shut down a taxidermist for good. He mentioned something about a hard-to-get permit, wished my dad good luck, and shut the door behind him.
One way or another, dad got the permit - and the previously skittish taxidermist was convinced to stuff the owl. Dad says he still has that permit - just in case anyone ever questions him - stashed in a folder someplace.
That bird was on the wall in our house my entire life. Not as a trophy, like most dead things you see on people's walls, but as a respected ambassador from the natural world. Dad talked about the white plumage and how they are camouflage in their natural, arctic environment. He explained everything he had learned about their rare migrations south, their hunting and nesting habits and the differences between males and females. This bird was a female - the males are all white, no black markings.
I have many happy memories involving that owl. She perched near our fireplace and was always part of that warm, happy corner of the house in the winter. She was present for every Christmas morning, pink in the glow from the tree lights. The fluffy nook between her feet was my favorite place to find a hard-boiled egg at Easter. Guest's dogs would bark at her. Her life-like, glass eyes seemed to look directly at you, wherever you stood. Funny, I never thought of her much as a kid. She was just always there in the background, silent. She watched over my entire childhood from that driftwood perch. Come to think of it, that owl has known me longer than any of my adult friends have - much longer. The bottom line is I just love that goddam bird. I guess that's all.
