A Tale of Two Kitties

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The great homed owl: No other hunter, bird or mammal, is as superbly equipped to survive in the wilds.

Recently I read that there are two kinds of people in this world: those who love cats, and those who don't. Well, yes, I suppose you could say that. But if we're going to generalize, then let's add that there are also two kinds of cats in this world: city kitties that keep mostly indoors and purr in their owners' laps, and semiferal country cats that prowl loose and unbelled, playfully destroying every bird and small animal they can lay claws on. The first kind is a heartwarming joy to its owner; the second can be a scourge to wildlife.

Unfortunately, the only feline I regularly come in contact with epitomizes the latter class: old Tom, a hefty white Manx belonging to a neighbor just down the mountain. Tom is a born hunter who, for several years, methodically attempted to consume every chipmunk, squirrel, rabbit kit and ground-nesting bird that crossed my little rural acreage or his own.

But poetic justice thrives in nature, and one evening last summer the hunter became the hunted. As told by Tom's owner—who happened to be outside puttering around and witnessed the drama unfold—Tom was out hunting, as usual, slinking ghostlike across a nearby meadow in the waning light. Just a normal work night for Tom the neighborhood terror. Then, suddenly and savagely, Tom became a flying feline, grasped firmly (and, one can assume, uncomfortably) about the head and neck by huge talons, jerked abruptly off the ground and hoisted skyward by a great horned owl. A few moments into its escape flight, the owl off-loaded the pussycat, then winged away into the sunset.

That much we know from eyewitness account.

To get the owl's side of the story, we'll have to be creative: Mr. Owl has just clocked in for the night shift when his sharp, searching eyes detect a light-hued form slipping through the evening shadows below. Recognizing the general shape, size and color of his favorite meal, the cottontail rabbit, Mr. Owl figures this to be his lucky night; he'll dine early, then retire to the deep dark woods to share a few good hoots with the boys. Getting right to work, Mr. Owl drops from cruising altitude in a swift and silent glide, striking his unwary prey with stunning force. "Heavy sucker," Mr. Owl grunts as he flaps away with what he supposes to be a trophy-class bunny.

But the rush of chill evening air streaming past the limp cat's airborne bod quickly revives him, and he commences twisting and jerking and generally clawing hell out of his unwanted ride. Mr. Owl, shocked and hurt, unaccustomed to having his food fight back, drops old Tom like an unfaithful lover and wings off into the night, asking himself aloud as he goes... "Whoo, who? "

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