A Tale of Two Kitties

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Peterson supplies us with a feast of common but interesting details—such as the fact that the great horned owl's scientific name is Bubo virginianus, that it stands 18 to 25 inches tall, that it's the only large owl with "horns," or ear tufts (actually mere clumps of feathers that have absolutely nothing to do with hearing or horning), and that its voice is "a deep resonant hooting of three to eight hoots."

"A deep resonant hooting of three to eight hoots." I'd occasionally heard great horned owls hoot since I was a child, and in the years I'd lived here at the edge of the Rocky Mountain backcountry, I'd heard the hoodoo call at least a couple of nights a week.

I'd heard the great owls talking, but I'd never really listened. I decided to play a game, to perform a little field experiment: The next time I heard clearly the hooting of a horny, I would listen, and count, and consider, and perhaps even attempt to imitate.

A few evenings later, I was sitting outside on the porch enjoying the sunset in solitude while my wife and our fat black pup, Amigo go, were off on their evening stroll. It was just at the edge of dark when I heard the owl—not too far away, a half-mile or so, hooting it up from down by the big marsh that seems to be the center of owl activity hereabouts. I cupped my hands behind my ears to better hear the call, then counted the syllables and memorized the cadence. . . hoo—hu-hooo—hoo—hooo. Five syllables, with the first so very soft and low as to be almost inaudible. I listened awhile longer, then formed a megaphone with my hands and let fly with a facsimile reply.

OWLS

His prey hear that cry and tremble.

Which was a tremendous disappointment, for I discovered that—even with six feet and 160 pounds of body to put behind the effort —no way could I pitch my voice as low as the hoot of a bird that I knew could weigh no more than five pounds max.

But the horny wasn't so critical and answered at once. Encouraged, I waited a few seconds and hooted again. Again the owl answered, sounding somewhat closer. I hooted, the owl hooted back, closer even yet. It was then that Carolyn and Amigo emerged from the woods at the bottom of the drive and headed up toward the cabin. I stood to warn them to stop where they were and keep quiet, but too late, for just then a huge brownish bird glided in from the direction of the marsh, made a low pass over Amigo, climbed rapidly, stalled in a momentary hover, then grabbed a perch atop a nearby pine snag.

At a loss for what to do next—it was getting too dark for photographs, and my camera was in the cabin besides—I hooted again. This time, instead of answering with a hoot, the owl screeched: an angry, coarse sound somewhere between a scream and a hiss. Our visitor remained on the snag for perhaps a minute more, screeching each time I'd hoot, then glided down the hill just out of sight, parked in another tree and continued to screech in answer to my hoots.

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