Congratulations Owl Lady!

As you place your latest porcelain owl on its appointed shelf you’ll hear it.  It’ll sound as if it’s far in the distance.

“Who indeed,” you’ll mutter under your breath in response, rubbing your hands together as if dry washing them.

You’ll leave your owl studded study and retreat to your gun room, decorated with a combination of owl paintings and stuffed owls, and survey the weapons available to you.  A shotgun is likely to devastate an owl’s physical form.  You won’t want to use one of those to acquire a new trophy.  And the larger rifles, while effective at killing an owl, won’t permit you to stuff its corpse afterwards unless it’s a truly massive specimen: a horned owl or some such, a truly massive creature unlikely to stumble into your owl-appointed lair unprepared.

You’ll choose a .22 rifle with a lever action.  Small, easy to use, and quick to refire if you miss.  You’ll smile at the prospect of adding another owl to your collection.

You’ll exit the study with the rifle pressed against your owl sweater clad chest, a box of shells decorated with owl stickers clutched under your arm.  The hoot will sound again, closer this time.  You’ll shuffle as quickly as you can to your owl-shooting-alcove, located on the western side of your home where owls generally like to fly, in order to catch the small rodents that populate the vacant lot your home is adjacent to.  When you enter the room you’ll notice that the window is ajar.  You’ll be puzzled.  You never open windows.  Perhaps it was Rosa, the cleaning lady? you’ll wonder.

You’ll put your rifle down gently and move over to the window to close it.  Halfway across the room a shape will suddenly swoop down and catch you on the temple, knocking you to the ground despite its miniscule mass.  On the ground you’ll put a hand to your temple.  Blood will be flowing from your scalp furiously.  You’ll rise to a kneeling position but another shape, different in color and size from the previous one, will descend upon you, slashing at you in turn.  You’ll hold up your arms to shield yourself this time and catch its blow on your forearm.

The wound will be unmistakable: the talons of an owl.

Suddenly the air will come alive with birds of all shapes and sizes, swooping, crashing down upon you, slashing at you with their claws.  They’ll assault you here, in this most horrid of places filled with the decorative corpses of their friends.

“But I love owls!” you’ll shriek at them to no avail.

As the owls flutter around you, swooping to rake you with their talons, you’ll catch sight of a single massive horned owl sitting in the open window, staring at you through the twirling mass of feathers.  It will be staring at you, looking through you and into your heart, your soul, your memory of transgressions against owl kind.  You’ll tremble at what you know it sees.

Congratulations Owl Lady!