The Owl and the Moon

It's 4:45 am on a Sunday and the bars are closed and everyone is flying home. In a low murmur he hums "Hoot, hoot-hoot, hoot" in a four-syllable cadence then repeats the rhythmic call. The faint light of dawn is an hour away and who wants a warm bed on a cool morning "Hoot, hoot-hoot, hoot?" After several minutes, from the next field over is a response, "Here I am" in a sweet higher pitch and as I hear this flirting from under my toasty covers I wonder if we'll have owlets this summer? We love our owls. They are so cool. During my day-time job I'm at a convention for art teachers and I'm calling out to each passerby the equivalent of "buy my product" asking with a friendly open-ended question and an owl saunters by and I receive a text message from The Matrix: "Follow the owl over the moon."

Is OwlGore Asleep On The Job?

There's a fresh gopher hole in the vineyard right underneath the home of OwlGore. What's that gopher thinking? And what the hell has OwlGore been doing? Is he asleep on the job? Did a GOP candidate just win a Congressional seat in a heavily Democratic New York district? WTF? Wait, the gopher trap Bluey and I set this morning is empty, and we're known for catching them with one shot, like the DeerHunter. And what's that small mound of fresh slimeytar rodent gunk under the owl's nest? Could that be the gopher? Tomorrow will tell.

Something Is Rotten In The State of Blue-Merle: Can You Guess What It Is?

What's in that bag?

This is a story about a foul smell at our doorstep and it's a hoot. I know about off odors in the winery (I've made my fair share of bad batches) and the vineyard (my nose detects the occasional bird rotting away in a net half devoured by Yellow Jackets or the rabbit that tries to hop through the squirrel trap, stupid rabbit). A similar scent greets me each morning as I open the front door of the house. What's that smell?! I check the netting in the nearby rows of vines. Nothing. I inspect the mouse traps outside the garage. Nothing. I search for nearby carcasses. Nothing. What is that smell? I glance at rotting greens inside a plastic bag destined for the compost pile and think, aha, this is it. Alas, not. And then something in the Starbucks bag next to the trash catches my eye (shown in the picture above). I notice the familiar scent coming from the trash can, open the lid to inspect and am overwhelmed by the stench and realize (with amazement) what the Queen has been collecting and putting into the trash by our front door. Can you guess what it is? I'll give you another hint: Owl Gore.

Baby Barn Owl Makes Debut

Owl Gore, Jr., son of Mr. & Ms. Owl Gore who occupy the box by the entrance of our property, made his debut on Sunday after his mother kicked him out of the roost for not picking up his room. "He just got too big for our coop and had to go," said Ms. Owl. A year ago we erected an owl box on a hill in the middle of our vineyard with 270 degree panoramic views of surrounding mountains and the Pacific Ocean. The penthouse has been vacant, another sign of the region's troubled real estate market. We sweetened the offer with free food: all the gophers and mice you can eat (which we have in abundance below the box). Our neighbor asked, "Did you get an owl yet?" Nope. They have owls all the time. He looked up at our box and observed, "Well, you don't have a perch. Your box needs a perch." Looks like I'll be yanking the 16 ft. pole out of the ground today and attaching a perch. One good thing; I didn't set the pole in concrete. Maybe we'll get that teenage Owl Gore, Jr. to lease our penthouse? What a hoot.