Oscar the Owl

Oscar the Owl

“Please, Vu, you have to take him,” Linda’s voice pleaded over the phone. “We’ve already had him for six weeks and he’s been to three other adoption places with no luck. No one wants to adopt an owl with no background.”

I sighed. “Linda, I can’t--” I started.

“You’re the best option for him,” she continued. “He’s not predictable or sweet and approachable like most people are looking for. He needs someone who knows animals and can respect and care for him properly.”

“If he seems so undomesticated,” I countered, “maybe he should go into one of those programs at the conservation place that helps re-release animals into the wild?” 

“I talked to them already,” she replied. “They said they’re already overwhelmed with animals and can’t even come see him for an evaluation.” 

I rubbed my forehead. 

“Please, Vu,” Linda said. “I’ve got no one else. He’s got no one else.”

I rubbed my forehead harder and shook my head. Linda sure knew how to tug at my heartstrings. 

“Linda, what am I going to do with an owl? I don’t have the time for--”

“He can live at the clinic!” She interrupted. “We’ll give you his favorite perch and the leash. He mostly just sits and stares at everyone when he’s not eating or sleeping anyway. He can sit at reception and people will love it.”

People did love it at first. Oscar the owl was regal and surveyed his new kingdom­– the vet clinic waiting room– from his wooden perch with unmitigated aloofness. I told Myra at reception not to let anyone near him until we knew his behaviors better but that only lasted about half a day. Robin came in with her toy Pomeranian Moxie and set him on the counter as usual (despite repeated reminders not to). Oscar turned his giant orange eyes on Moxie and lunged in quick as lightning for a bite. He was just out of reach, thank heavens, or things could have been very bad. Robin ripped poor Myra a new one, and Myra calmly weaponized her professionalism to remind Robin that it was against the clinic’s policy for animals to be set on the front counter unless in a carrier. I made a mental note to look into giving Myra a raise. 

After that incident, Oscar was moved to the back counter and spent his days glaring at the back of Myra’s head and making threatening eyes at our clients. His new location was next to the doorway that separated the front office from the back. He quickly learned that I regularly used this doorway and made a game of being ready to strike. It was annoying but harmless, as he couldn’t quite reach me. 

A week or so later, I was doing an exam on a regular of mine, Dimpty the Siamese cat, when his owner Tom brought up Oscar.

“By the way, what’s the deal with that mean-looking owl behind Myra?” He asked. “He sort of appeared out of the blue.”

I snorted. “Yeah, that’s Oscar. It’s a long story. A friend at the animal shelter begged me to take him because no one was adopting him and they were going to have to put him down.”

“Ha,” Tom chuckled. “A fitting name. Like Oscar the Grouch.”

“He certainly does live up to his name,” I said.

“So what’re you gonna do with him?” Tom asked as I finished listening to Dimpty’s heart rate.

“Looks like an eye infection; but nothing too serious. We’ll prescribe him some antibiotics,” I replied. 

“That’s fine,” Tom said. “But I didn’t mean Dimpty, I meant Oscar.”

“Oscar?” I said, surprised. “What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s clearly an unhappy owl. Are you gonna find him a new home with some experienced owl person, or train him yourself, or what?” 

I frowned. “I actually hadn’t thought about it,” I said. “I mean, he bites, but I didn’t really look at it as him being unhappy.”

“Hey, you’re the vet,” Tom said as he affectionately scratched Dimpty’s head. “But it seems to me that when an animal is mean it’s usually because they’re scared or sad or unhappy for some reason.” He shrugged. “Just sayin’.”

Tom’s words stuck with me for the rest of the afternoon. He was right, and it was oddly neglectful of me to not have realized sooner that it was unlikely that Oscar was inherently mean. Myra and I had tried befriending him when he first arrived but he had made it clear he wasn’t interested. She fed him crickets throughout the day, which he would only devour after she backed off.

I was frustrated with my friend Linda for passing him off on me and frustrated with myself for letting her. But it wasn’t Oscar’s fault no one wanted him. Oh wait, yes it was. He wasn’t exactly pouring on the charm. Still, Tom was right. Oscar was probably scared. 

That evening, I told Myra I would close up and give Oscar his dinner. She had been kind enough to stay late a few times to feed him while I caught up on my charting from the day. I think she felt bad for him, or maybe me. 

After Myra left, I grabbed the live crickets and some dead mice and lizards and sat in Myra’s chair. I loved birds and had owned a cockatiel when I was a kid. But during veterinary school, I had focused my attention on parakeets, cockatiels, lovebirds, etc., as those were the most common house pets I would be encountering. Owls were birds, yes, but they were very unlike your typical house variety. They were nocturnal, solitary, and carnivorous. 

Oscar was a great horned owl. He was beautiful despite that he was always glaring at me with his huge, unblinking orange eyes, shadowed by a formation of feathers that gave him an angry unibrow. He sat there fluffed, eyes piercing into my soul, just waiting for me to get within striking distance. 

“Hey, Oscar,” I said. He blinked but otherwise didn’t move. “I’ve got your dinner here for you. Some crispy crickets, tasty mice, and chewy lizards. What do you think?” I slid the desk chair a couple of inches closer to him. “Want to try them?”

Oscar shifted his talons, glancing for a quick moment at the lizard I held. I inched closer to him in small increments until I was close enough to lay the lizard near him, but as I did, he lashed out and bit my finger with passion. “Ouch!” I cried. It was a good bite and I had to get a Band-Aid for the bleeding. 

When I came back, the lizard was gone and Oscar was back to glaring at me threateningly. I slumped into the chair again. 

“Okay, buddy,” I sighed. “You’re uptight; I get it. I can’t say I blame you. I get uptight a lot, too.”

I spent the next hour talking to Oscar about life; what was going well, what wasn’t, and why. As I talked, I used a wooden spoon to feed him his dinner from a safe distance. Sometimes I would toss the crickets and he would watch where they landed and grab them. When dinner was over, I said goodnight, turned out the lights, and left, locking the glass door behind me. He glared at me through the glass, and I waved. I probably look like an idiot right now, I thought. I walked around the corner and got in my car. I caught up on answering texts for a few minutes, but instead of driving away afterward, I tried sneaking back to the door to spy on Oscar. He was preening his feathers diligently. 

I spent the next few evenings feeding him like that and having a one-sided conversation. Sometimes I sang songs when I ran out of things to say. Oscar’s orange eyes continued to bore unflinchingly into my soul.

On Friday, I came into the clinic just as Myra was getting settled at the desk. “Hey Myra,” I said. She returned the greeting. “Hey Oscar,” I said as I passed through the doorway to the back office. He turned his head as I went, his glowing eyes following me. For the first time, he didn’t try to bite me. 

I grinned to myself as I sat down at my desk in the back. “It sure is the little things in life,” I murmured to myself. 

As the next few weeks passed, Oscar gradually let me get closer to him during dinner and eventually I risked another finger to see if I could feed him without the spoon. He lunged at me, but his bite was more like a reminder that he could bite me really hard if he wanted to. He didn’t draw any blood. After some more practice, he stopped lunging altogether. He was finally taking baby steps toward trusting me. All I had to do was stay consistent and show him he had nothing to fear. I started spending lunches with him as well as dinners, and on weekends when the clinic was closed I’d let him loose and encourage him to explore a bit. He was still wary of me but his aggression was dwindling. He even closed his eyes one night while I sang a little song. I started looking forward to our evening talks as he grew to trust me more and would even preen himself sometimes and move around on his perch. 

Myra laughed one day when I gave her and Oscar the usual greeting and Oscar responded “WHO!” at me in return. “You, buddy!” I chuckled. Oscar shuffled closer to me and gently flapped his wings. It was official: he was happy to see me. He’d been easing up on Myra too, and many of our clients were fascinated by him now that he was more active and didn’t just sit there threatening everyone with his massive eyes and angry unibrow. 

Linda from the animal shelter came in with her German shepherd Polly and gushed at how magnificent Oscar was. 

“See?” She said, poking me in the shoulder. “I was right, wasn’t I? He’s a huge hit!” 

I just rolled my eyes.

“Linda,” said Myra, “where did Oscar come from, anyway? What’s his story?”

“All I know is he was left on the doorstep of one of our shelters up north,” Linda replied. “We think he’s about 12 to 15 years old. So many people think it’s so cool to own an owl, but they are a huge investment. Keeping them fed and housed and exercised properly is beyond what most people can afford, both financially and practically. They require a lot of care.”

I gave her a pointed look. “Yes, they do,” I said. 

She chuckled apologetically. “I have no regrets,” she said.

Six months later, Oscar was letting me gently scratch his head and made a big fuss if I didn’t give him attention at pre-determined intervals only he was privy to. Myra even complained that he would interrupt her phone calls by loudly asking “WHO?!” until she fed him a cricket. I offered to move him to the back with me for the rest of the day. 

“Oh, no,” she said, quickly. “You don’t have to do that, we’ll be fine.” I smiled. She liked Oscar as much as I did. 

One evening, our last appointment of the day had just left and Myra and I were about to start cleaning up when we heard the little bell on the door chime. 

A man had come rushing in carrying a small pug in his arms. 

“Please!” the man cried. “Please help my Rocky! He’s been hit!” 

“I’m sorry, we’re not an emergency vet,” I said. “There’s one just a few minutes from here—” 

“No, please,” the man said again, clearly very distraught. “Don’t make me go all the way there! He’s hurt, can’t you do something?” 

I hesitated for a moment. 

“At least patch him up enough so I can get over there,” the man pleaded. I exchanged a look with Myra, who gave me a sympathetic shrug. 

“Alright,” I conceded, and the man let out a relieved breath. “Myra, can you make sure one of the exam rooms is clean?” She scurried off without a word. I turned back to the man. “What happened, Mr…?” 

“I’m Frank and this is Rocky,” he said, hurriedly. “He got out and I think he must have been chasing a squirrel or something and I went after him but he got hit before I could get there.” His voice cracked as he spoke. It was clear this pug was more than just a dog to him. Myra came back and ushered us into one of the exam rooms as he continued. “He was still awake when I got to him, but I think he’s hurt bad and now he won’t open his eyes!”

“Alright, Frank,” I said gently. I took Rocky carefully from him and laid him on the exam table. 

I could see immediately that Rocky’s injuries were very serious. He was still breathing but they were ragged breaths, and I palpated several broken ribs. The likelihood of internal bleeding was almost certain. I started doing what I could, but it quickly became clear that the poor little guy wasn’t going to make it. Frank was very agitated and paced the room. A few moments later, Rocky breathed his last and my heart sank. I looked up at Frank sympathetically. 

“No!” he cried, hoarsely. “No, no, no. This isn’t happening. What did you do?”

“I’m so sorry, Frank,” I said, quietly. “I’ll give you some time with him.”

Myra slipped in with a box of tissues and I moved to leave through the back door of the exam room. 

“This is your fault!” Frank yelled, suddenly tackling me from behind. He was a larger man than I was and I found myself on the floor at his mercy. He used his weight to hold me down and rain down angry punches on me. I instinctively covered my face and neck with my arms but couldn’t manage to get out from under him. Myra screamed something and ran. I could only assume she was calling the police. 

Suddenly, I heard a high-pitched screeching sound and Frank’s attacks let up. I moved my arms enough to see what was happening and saw Frank defending himself against the large talons and sharp beak of Oscar. I had completely forgotten that I’d let him off his leash just before Frank came in. He had flown in through the open exam room door and was a flurry of wings and feathers, screeching, clawing, and pecking. Frank rolled off me and curled up in a ball on the floor to protect himself. Oscar was relentless. I gained my feet and found my voice. 

“Oscar!” I shouted over the deafening squawks. “Oscar, stop! Come here.” I grabbed him from above, pinning his giant wings as best I could as he kept up his flurry of attacks on Frank. He struggled in my arms and kept screeching. I looked at Frank. For a man who’d just been viciously attacked by an owl, he seemed okay. He stayed in the fetal position, sobbing. There were countless scratches on his arms but none were bleeding too badly.

I was in shock and couldn’t find any words. Eventually, Frank calmed down enough to sit up. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, quietly. All signs of rage were gone. “Rocky was my late wife’s dog. I lost her to cancer two months ago, and Rocky was all I had left.” He buried his face in his hands and started sobbing again.

I sighed. The adrenaline was still pumping and my whole body was shaking. Oscar had stopped screeching but was still wriggling to get free. Frank wasn’t a threat anymore; I left the room, closing the door behind me. Myra nearly ran into me when I got to the front.

“Vu!” She exclaimed. “Oh my gosh, are you okay? I called the police and they’re on their way. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know how to help. Where is he? What happened?” She was talking rapidly and holding onto my arm. I made sure she was okay and told her Frank was calm now and thanked her for her help.

Oscar had settled and I set him back on his perch. He hooted at me and then immediately set about putting all his feathers back in place and cleaning himself up.

The police arrived a few minutes later and I decided not to press charges. Frank’s actions had clearly been driven by grief and, while this did not absolve him from responsibility for his behavior, it did seem unlikely that he was a danger to anyone else. He asked to take Rocky home with him and on his way out he apologized again. Myra fished around in her purse and handed him a trifold pamphlet for grief counseling. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. Frank took the pamphlet and gave her a grateful nod. Without another word he turned and left, clutching the box containing Rocky. 

The police didn’t stay long after that. Once they left, I turned to Oscar. He’d finished his important work on his feathers and was sitting on his perch, looking at me curiously with his big orange orbs. I leaned over and his eyes closed contentedly as he enjoyed the head scratches I gave him. 

“You saved me tonight, buddy,” I said. The shock was finally wearing off and what had happened was starting to sink in. My eyes got wet. “Thank you, Oscar. Good boy.”

Myra smiled and flicked him a cricket. “Who’s a good guard owl?” She teased him.

“WHO!!” Oscar replied, merrily scooping up his treat.