All in a Day’s Work

“You have no business here, fowl!”

I slowly turned my white, heart-shaped face to gaze at the creature over my left wing. Casually blinking my large, dark eyes, I nonchalantly replied, “Do you own this barn?”

The large gray cat behind me squinted her orange eyes and hissed, “Our kind were here first!”

“Your kind came on a boat with humans. My kind has lived here for tens of thousands of years. We were here first. Begone!” I turned my gaze downward, looking for mice, snakes, and other vermin upon which I could feed.

“I could tear you apart with my claws!” the cat screamed.

“And I could pick you up, carry you off, and drop you to your death on the stones below.” I spread my wings to indicate just how simple that task would be. When I turned to look the cat in her eyes, she had slunk away to the shadows, no doubt to cower in fear as her kind usually does.

“Well done, owl,” said a voice from below. I gazed down to see my old friend, the hound dog. Sway-backed and almost toothless, the wizened lord of the farm wagged his tail. “It’s good to see you, my friend.”

“And it is good to see you,” I replied. I jumped from my perch in the rafters and landed on the rail of the stall where the simple-minded jenny mule slept, oblivious to the altercation that had occurred above her. Better that than if she had been awake. My entrances often startled her into a braying fit. The milk cow in the next stall mooed softly in greeting. “And a good evening to you, too, ma’am,” I said politely. She swished her tail and chewed her cud contentedly.

The old hound dog pawed at the hay on the floor, circled a few times, then plopped himself down on the straw bed he had made for himself. He heaved a great sigh of contentment then asked, “How’s the hunting this evening?”

“I was about to munch on a quite plump mouse when the cat interrupted my meal.”

The hound dog chuckled. “She’s good at that, you know. Causing trouble and getting in the way of things. I’d break her neck with my fangs if I had any left. Ah, but that would just upset the mistress. For some reason beyond my ken, she likes the vile creature.”

“There’s no accounting for bad taste,” I said as I glided off the rail, swooped down, and snatched the plump mouse in my beak. I offered a quick, silent prayer of thanks for my meal, quickly broke the poor thing's neck to spare it further suffering, then swallowed it almost whole.

“That should hold you for a while,” the hound dog said.

I looked at the lightening sky in the east through the barn door. “Until at least tonight,” I said.

Movement from the human’s house caught my attention. “I’d better disappear for now,” I announced. “Take care, old friend.”

The hound dog’s response was a soft snore and some movement from his paws, followed by a low growl. Maybe dreaming about cracking the cat’s neck, I thought as I returned to the rafters to conceal my presence.

I watched silently from my perch as the mistress entered the barn, carrying a lantern in her hand. I pitied the humans their inability to see in the dark, to rely on fire for their light. I watched as she set the lantern on the rail of the milk cow’s stall. She entered and placed the stool near the cow’s udders, then reached for a bucket to collect the milk she would pull from the mammal’s glands. What a curious habit, I thought to myself. I’ve never seen a creature drink the milk of another like the humans drink from cows. Yet she did this every morning, faithfully, no matter the season. If she was unable, her mate would come. Humans are such a strange yet fascinating species.

Suddenly a pitiful noise issued from the house. The human’s youngling cried out for her in a most distressing way. Awakened by the noise, the hound dog rose to his feet and nudged the human. Concerned, she knocked the stool over and rushed from the barn to see what was the matter in the house. The cow mooed in irritation. The jenny continued to snooze.

The cat, however, appeared suddenly on the rail near the lantern. She approached it cautiously at first, then began pawing at it curiously.

“Careful!” I cried. “Fire is one human tool you do not want to trifle with.”

“Shut up, owl,” she hissed. “I live with humans. You live in the wild like a savage.”

“I observe and I know things.”

“You don’t know half as much as you think you do.” She continued pawing at the lantern.

“Stop!” I screeched. Startled by my warning, the jenny mule awoke just in time to see the cat knock the lantern from the rail onto the hay below. The flames were immediate.

The jenny brayed and kicked in fear. She leaped over the rail of her stall and ran out the door of the barn and into the twilight of the dawn. The poor cow, though, was tied to a post, unable to escape her stall, which would soon be engulfed in flames, too.

I flew from my perch and out the barn door, screeching my loudest warnings. I alit on the sill of the window. Inside I could see the human holding her youngling. I pecked at the glass, but I could not catch her attention. The youngling, however, heard and saw me. Pointing and cooing at my sight, the mother turned to see what her hatchling was looking at. Her eyes widened as she saw the flames inside the barn behind me. The hound dog howled and clawed at the door to the house, and the mule stood nearby, braying mournfully. Surely the human heard them, too? Placing her youngling in a nearby nest, she shook the shoulders of her mate, who sat with his back to the window. These humans had a curious way of communicating without sound, using their hands instead of their mouths. Her mate turned and stared in horror at the growing flames in the barn.

Jumping from the windowsill, I flew back into the barn and as close to the flames as I could. “Fear not!” I shouted to the cow. “Your master and mistress are coming with water.” The poor creature’s fur was singed near her hooves, but fortunately, the flames themselves had not yet reached her.

Before too long, the fire was extinguished. There was damage in the barn, but it had been saved. Thankfully the cow was only slightly harmed with nothing that a little salve couldn’t heal.

The wooden railings still smoldered that evening as the sun set, but they had been drenched in water; no burning embers remained. The fire had stirred the mice in the barn, which made hunting all the easier.

“You saved them, you know,” the hound dog said as he sauntered into the barn and looked up at my perch. “They would have never heard me howling and barking at the door until it was too late.”

“Just protecting my food source,” I said. That wasn’t entirely true. I had grown fond of the humans and of the hound dog, and even of the jenny mule and the cow since my coming to roost in this barn.

“Have you seen the cat around lately?” asked the hound dog.

“No.” I lied. I had seen her, slinking in the shadows after the fire had been extinguished. I knew her crime, and I told her if she showed herself here again, I would make good on my promise to dash her on the rocks from a great height. No doubt she had already taken up residence in a neighboring farm’s barn.

“The mistress will miss her, you know,” warned the hound dog.

“The mistress doesn’t know the cat is an arsonist,” I replied.

The hound dog chuckled. “True that,” he said as he made a new bed of fresh straw on the barn floor. “Happy hunting,” he mumbled as he drifted off to sleep.

I smiled at my old friend, then swooped down to snatch a snake wriggling across the hay toward the cow’s stall. “All in a day’s work,” I replied.