COLUMN: Owls

When my garage was broken into a couple weeks ago, I wondered if I'd become one of those jumpy people constantly paranoid about safety and security.

The answer? A resounding yes. Whole-heartedly.

As much as I don't want to, I'm now reaching for my security camera feed every time I hear a bump in the night. And while I love my neighborhood, let's also be frank: I live in Rock Island, and there's no shortage of bumps in the night in these parts. Most of them, in fact, are caused by the three cats who graciously allow me to live in their home.

One such bump in the night occurred last week. I was sitting on my couch when a sudden "BA-DUMP" from outside made me instinctively grab my phone and pull up the feeds from the front of my house. I'd like to say it was all quiet on the eastern front. It was, in fact, anything but quiet.

The ba-dump itself turned out to be nothing alarming, unless you were the guy driving the rusty pickup that had just nailed the pothole on my block. It's been steadily growing this summer from a minor inconvenience to what can now only be described as a gaping hell-mouth to Middle Earth.

But I instantly found myself less concerned about the ba-dump of days gone by and more with the sounds my camera was picking up live. As God is my witness, I sat there frozen for thirty seconds listening to what sounded like a tribe of angry monkeys on the roof of my house.

I'm familiar with the assorted night noises of Rock Island. People talking and laughing as they walk to the nearby gas station. Car doors closing. Trains whistling, semis honking, police sirens blaring. It's the lullabye of urban life. But these were NOT urban noises. These were prehistoric noises.

This is one of those times I'm stymied as a writer. I wish I could just play you the recording. The best I can describe, it was something akin to "SKREE! SKREE! WHAA WHAA WHAA OWOOOOOO! WOOOOOOO! AH AH AH OOOOOO!" And whatever it was, it was CLOSE. And it wasn't alone. At least two of these giant killer roof monkeys were chatting with one another. 

Obviously when that pickup hit the pothole, it riled up whatever ancient monstrosity lives down there in the Land of the Lost, and the hellbeast had awakened. Normally, this would be an insane proposition. But in 2020, killer subterranean monsters wouldn't surprise me one bit.

We all know what a nature lover I am -- specifically I love that it's outside and I'm not -- but I was curious nonetheless. I found an app for my phone that promised it could "identify ANY bird call within earshot!" I cautiously opened my front door, stuck my phone outside and pressed record. Sure enough, within seconds, my phone informed me with confidence that I was listening to -- a pigeon.

I learned something that night -- specifically, I learned how easy it is to waste $3.99 on a pointless app. If that noise came from a pigeon, it's a pigeon that's evolved Pokemon-style into Pigeonizard or something. That was no pigeon. So I took the recording and threw it up on Facebook for the hivemind of my friends to analyze. Multiple theories flooded in: Owls. Crows. Owls vs. Crows. Injured turtle doves. Someone even said, "that noise CAN'T be real. Someone's messing with you."

The next day, my neighborhood was quiet. The house was still standing, and I found neither the talon marks of a prehistoric pigeon nor the droppings of a dozen angry monkeys. Defeated, I thought I'd try one last recourse: Dr. Stephen Hager, from Augustana College's Department of Biology. Dr. Hager graciously agreed to listen to the recording and it only took him seconds to make a positive ID.

"Those are definitely barred owls," he told me, "and close by."

I may not be a man of nature, but I've watched my fair share of children's cartoons and I have pulled the string on many a Fisher-Price See 'n Say. Based on this, I can tell you with some authority that owls are supposed to politely go "hoot." They are NOT supposed to go "SKREE! SKREE! WHAA WHAA WAAAAA!" Apparently no one told this to barred owls.

"What you recorded that night was at least two owls caterwauling," Dr. Hager explained, "which is usually associated with paired birds that sing together, presumably to strengthen their bonds of devotion." I'm not positive here, but that might be the professorial way of explaining that my nocturnal friends were about to get freaky-deaky in a considerably more-than-PG-13 kinda way. I may have just heard the owl equivalent of an Al Green record.

"The raucous hoots, gurgles, and shrieks probably also signal to adjacent owls about territory boundaries," said Dr. Hager before casually horrifying me. "Caterwauling can also happen when owls are trying to subdue a large prey item. Any of your neighbors lose a kitty that night?"

OH, NO. Wait -- one... two... and three. Whew. My adorable large prey items are all here and accounted for.

I have no issues with owls. What's not to love? They're majestic birds with huge eyes and the ability to spin their heads around like Linda Blair. But when an owl shows up at my door, it should be for one of three reasons:

1. I have been accepted into Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

2. I am about to learn how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop.

3. I am about to get a stern lecture on littering.

The United States Forest Service could learn a thing or two from Dr. Hager. Kids might take littering WAY more seriously if Woodsy Owl showed up like, "Hey kids, give a hoot, don't pollute -- OR GOD HELP ME, I WILL EAT YOUR CAT!"

I dunno, nothing phases me in 2020. We're living with an invisible plague, murder hornets, and hurricane winds in Iowa. Adding a few aerial cat-eating predators should be just another drop in the bucket at this point. Still, I prefer my cats safely inedible within the confines of my home. Happily, Dr. Hager tells me the best time to catch barred owls caterwauling is between 3-5 a.m., when I'm tucked away in bed, happy and safe in my -- WAIT, WHAT WAS THAT NOISE??