My Oscar for Life

Imagine the possibility of a return to a moment in time that defined you as a person. To change a memory, or a reaction, or a decision that changed your life forever? Perhaps when you were a child or a teenager or perhaps, even last year? Five years ago? I, myself, wonder if we all have these thoughts and question how different our world would be if we could. They make movies about how our souls or hearts, or minds might feel complete by going back in time and righting a wrong or finding the one true love of our youth. When we think on it, we are bound to contemplate how we might have made an impact on the world or in another person’s life if we could skip over the breadth of time and recover such a moment. This is a story about how I did just that. And the ripple effect I never saw coming.

In all honesty, the only thing I pictured at the tender age of eight was the idea that I would grow up and move away to The Big City. Get a high-powered job and live in an apartment in a high-rise. Go to dinner with friends and become part of those pictures you used to see in magazines that illuminated what a successful life was supposed to look like. That dream sustained me throughout my young years. Those dreams are a part of who I was, when I remember who I wanted to be as an adult. The younger idea of my life in my mind then, and the reality of it now, are glaringly opposite ends of the same pole. But, to better understand me and what happened that night, perhaps I should tell you something about myself before we go any further.

I ‘see’ things. Not dead people or apocalyptic zombies – that would be dreadful and even mortifying. But I see things ‘happen’. I can foresee it before it occurs. Like a dream, but I am awake. Or remembering something that I know positively never happened. That night in the field, under a brilliant bright moon, where the danger came for us, was the turning point for me and my gift.

In the quiet dream of sleep, I see poachers in the field.

ROWFF!! ROWFF!! ROWFF!!

That deep, booming bark means something is wrong. I fly out of my bed with only my pajamas on and run out the back kitchen door. Oscar and Glory are circling over the flock – I can hear the sharpness of their screaming cries over by the large pasture where the sheep sleep with Blue Dog. In the moonlight I see Blue circling the herd and backing them up, growling at what is in front of her in the darkness. I see the shape of a man with a stick in his hand. Only I know it is not a stick. And I do the one thing I had been forewarned not to do. I interfere.

The first time I met Oscar and Glory. I was eight years old, hoisting the heavy door to the horse stalls by myself to feed the horses (an honor at such a young age!), and they flew out of their hot shelter into the warm, dusky night air. The terrifying part was I did not know they lived in our barn, and upon his exit, Oscar’s talons just barely touched the top of my braids, piled high on my head. That unexpected touch was the most terrifying thing I had ever experienced. An unforeseen, scraping, catching touch on your hair at dusk, in a shadowy barn on a quiet and hot evening by something flying over your head is ghastly and chilling.

But the fact is, Oscar was a little scared of me. And I was a lot scared of him. After all, a bird without a regular face is terrifying to small children. Not to mention the fact that Oscar almost always hid in the rafters of our barn which was laden with cobwebs, spiders, skittering mice, and all-around grossness, so I had never seen him before. Barn owls they were, and he and Glory were only visible (and I use the term loosely) at dusk or nighttime when everything is magnified and overwhelmingly scary in the middle of corn and wheat and cow country with the nearest neighbor more than three acres away. I mean honestly - bats, raccoons, and opossums scurrying about making rustling sounds in the quiet grass, breaking simple sticks and twigs, or climbing on the old woodpile where the grouchy groundhog lived were frightening for a small girl who believed in goblins and fairies and leprechauns. God help you if you went out without some sort of light device. Flashlight. Lantern. Candle. And I can’t say phone because back then the only one we had was firmly attached to the wall in our kitchen.

Now, not everyone knew I could ‘see’. My mother, my grandmother who lived next door, my Aunt Eli, and I think maybe my brother because he thought I was a bit daft in the head and he knew I was different.

Ahhhhh…..the word different.

My mother used to tell me not to tell others what I could ‘see’. She said if I had to explain something, to say that it had been a dream. That way they would not think I was ‘different’.

God forbid if you were at odds with the way the world perceived a little girl to be. To a child, telling them to deny what and who they are, is like an invisible, sharp knife in the middle of their chest, twisting just a bit. No one can see it, but you know it is there. You feel it all the time. You are reminded that you are mismatched from others. And it feels shameful. Like you did something knowingly wrong and must live with your guilt silently. So, I remained quiet in the face of knowing what was coming, what could happen, and when it might.

Now, it must be said that my faithful Blue Dog and Oscar were close, close friends. They shared a bond that only a child might understand. Humans in their younger selves are companionable in a way their grown-up selves do not acknowledge very often. It is a love that transcends the idea that they are unique and therefore not alike and must be avoided. Children will embrace differences if left to their own devices. They appreciate them because they know – deep down – that we are all different in some way or another, yet we all want to be the same, yet together. And they understand that the most powerful thing in the world is to accept others as they are. It is the grownups that tell them that they should not. Adults tell them to be afraid, to ridicule or shun. It is not inherent in a small child. It is learned and built over the lifetime of their youth.

In her element, Blue kept watch over the sheep that lived in the pastures (hmmm…sounds like a Christmas song) during the night. Keeping them safe was her mission (really sounds like a Christmas song) from coyotes or wolves. Although I must point out that wolves were not found in our neck of the woods, but prepared she was, always in defense of her flock! Her loud, deep, dusk-barking ritual made known to all within earshot that she was out and about, patrolling the parameters and grounds, keeping us all safe. In the companionship they shared, Blue Dog, Oscar, and Glory, the night was their heaven. Oscar and Glory took to the evening sky with silent effort, buoyantly and slowly circling the land while foraging for dinner. Kindred spirits Blue, Oscar and Glory were as they loved the mysterious darkness, the bright moon, the black moonless nights, the wind, and the air. Blue Dog, being a Great Pyrenees, was especially fond of the cold, windy, wintry weather, but Oscar and Glory were not. Although, they had to admit it was easier finding tasty morsels of mice and random critterness against the white blankets of snow. But the wind wasn’t kind to my adored feathered friends, and they often had to find shelter among the trees with no leaves, or in the dense fir trees that were thick as a pigs’ hide.

Our mornings and afternoons were devoted to gardening and working outside, but the evenings were the times that Blue Dog, Oscar and Glory and I would play. They would swoop out of the barn and sail off into the pasture while Blue Dog was working to bring in the sheep. Gliding through the air, they’d dive-bomb the sheep and zoom Blue’s head, looking for her to turn and run and bark at them. She was a fast runner and would chase them, always watching them in the sky while they plunged and swept the sky, playing in their own and loving companionable way. I would follow chase and run and yell and laugh at our playful and happy selves. This ritual was part of my life, and if I missed it for a trip to town or a neighbor’s house for supper, it was like missing out on something that I would never see again. And it was gone forever. This always made me sad because I loved them and wanted to be a part of their lives always because they were all such an important part of mine.

One scorching summer evening in August, things took an unexpected and dark turn on our little plot of land. The early onset of a breeze was greeted as a welcome relief, but we soon realized that we were not in line for a lovely respite from the exhausting, oppressive weather. Strong, damaging storms were a-comin'. The wind was blowing mightily against the on-coming rainstorm that threatened our homestead, our land, and fields. The howling wind led us all to believe that we were in for tornado weather. The days had been hot and steamy, the air thick as pond water and stifling to breathe.

Strangely, I noticed that Oscar had been out and about that day. Odd behavior for a barn owl that lived his life in the night. He got caught in the relentless wind and was helpless to get back to the barn for refuge. I watched him fly off to the forested part of the land and prayed he would find safe shelter, and then hopped over the fence to bring the horses into the barn for protection. The storm clouds were gathering across the neighboring wheat field, their black angry bottoms filling with air, rolling, and boiling in a winding swift, turning motion. The dark green sky did not portend well, and we all began to hurry as fast as we could. I called Blue to herd the sheep to the pen that was built against the north side of the barn. She trotted and steered and woofed at her flock until the last ewe was in the pen. I locked the large barn door gate and left their door in the brick wall open so they could get in the barn for safety if they needed to. I knew Blue would keep watch outside, relishing the gale and the rain as only a Great Pyrenees can.

The storm came upon us fast, knocking over tree across the road, uprooting the big, but old pine in the front yard, and toppling the tractor that sat on a rack just aside from the garden for repair. The gusting storm whirled around our farmhouse, tearing one of the front porch pillars clean off its base, leaving it crooked and broken, the roof precariously shifting in the wind. The neighbor’s tool shed roof was ripped off and ended up in the middle of the dirt road. Tree branches littered the landscape, rolling like tumbleweeds in the harrowing gusts. And then, it was gone.

Half the garden laid in clumps, the tomatoes pulled from their earthly bed and left for nothing but mulch and compost. Soon, the evening offered itself up to us, calm and cool. We gathered the vegetables we could save, righted the tractor, secured the front porch until it could be repaired, and helped Harold Roome get his shed roof out of the road. We walked to the barn in the fresh, wet, pristine air and opened it up for the horses so that Midnight and Jasper could escape the stiff, unbreathable air. We fed them, the sheep, and Blue Dog. By the time it was all put to right, it was long past time for a hot bath and bed and my mother insisted I come in and tend to both. Lying in bed, the fresh cotton sheets offering comfort, the windows of my room open, allowing the gentle breeze of the darkness and the smell of fresh air to cross my sleeping threshold, I could feel the most comforting and soft tone of the calm, quiet air. I could hear the sheep lowing in their large pen, lulling me into a peaceful sleep as only the country air can. The evening had softened, and respite had arrived.

During the quiet night, I was startled out of sleep. I did not know what it was but the hair on the back of my neck and my arms were prickling and standing. At first, I did not ‘see’ all of them, just one lone human standing in the light of night, the glint of moonlight passing over the barrel of his gun. I did not know what he was aiming at, but it didn’t matter. He meant us harm. It was at that moment I could ‘see’ what his intentions were. To kill our dog and as many sheep as they could carry. That was when I knew more than one man was standing in our field. In my mind I watched them approach the barn with menace and then saw Blue lying in a pool of blood, her lifeless white body now crimson with death, her throat violently slashed. One by one, I saw them kill six of our sheep, slicing their throats so the sounds of gunfire would not wake us. I cried in horror as I watched the scene unfold in my mind. My anguish and grief overtook me as only such cruelty can. Our beautiful little farm was now bereft of the life we had made for ourselves, only death and loss left behind as a reminder of our beloved animal family.

At that very instant, I woke from my nightmare and immediately understood that nothing had happened yet. I knew that I was ‘seeing’. At that exact moment I heard Blue Dog barking her deep, alarming bark and ran out of the house.

It was only then that I heard Oscar and Glory screeching above me. I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were close overhead because I could hear the flapping of their wings. The man with the gun did not see or hear me until I was upon him. A small girl of eight, running as fast as she could into a hayfield with no shoes and only fury and contempt in her heart for the man with the gun, those despicable images of obliteration spurring me violently forward. He turned at the sound of what could only be my labored breathing and I barreled toward his legs to knock him down. As I did, I began to scream. Except no sound came out. Just like in dreams. Trying to make a warning and being helpless to do so. I bashed into his leg and as he began to fall, his gun fired off into the night. I fell and hit my head on the ground and have no memory of what happened next. But when I awoke, my mother was holding me and crying. I could hear my father and brothers yelling and cursing and strange voices arguing. And out I went again.

As the night gave way to light, I awoke in my bed, my mother tending to the nasty gash I had on my head. I was dizzy and confused and kept asking what had happened. All she could say was “You saved us.” I had no idea what she meant because I did not remember.

“But what happened?” I asked again. I could see my whole family in my small bedroom, clearly distraught and upset.

“You ran out of the house, and we heard the backdoor slam. Then a strange screeching sound and then gunfire.” My father offered. “What happened Livie?” he asked. I had no choice and told them what I had seen and what I had done.

“Yes. You saw it. Thank you, my sweet girl.” My mother said quietly. Everyone stood silently and nodded slightly to themselves. And with that, the proverbial cat was completely out of the bag.

Later that morning I was allowed to get up and move around. I looked out the back kitchen door and saw the commotion of the local police, several neighbors, Harold Roome included, my father and brothers talking and swearing quite loudly. On the ground in the apple orchard sat seven men in handcuffs. Disheveled men. Dirty men. Neighboring men. It was unthinkable to me – that these men, that we knew and had helped and had shared times and meals with would come to harm us in such a grotesque and gruesome way. I could not believe it and I began to cry. With a heavy heart, I put on my shoes and went out to the yard, giving a wide berth to the scene in the orchard, and silently walked and listened. Suddenly, I remembered what I had seen in my vision and ran to the barn. But there was Blue, sleeping with her flock. Relief flooding me, I went into the barn to look for Oscar and Glory. But only Glory sat on their beamed perch. I ran out of the barn and scoured the sky, looking for my amazing friend who had forewarned the ugly nature of inconsolable death. I looked and looked and looked, but he was nowhere to be found. I thought for certain that he would appear, and all would be put to right in my eight-year-old world. Blue Dog was with her flock, my family was safe, bad men were going to jail, and the garden was not completely lost - we would have food for the hard winter that would surely come. All would be well.

That afternoon, my brother Brydon came to me with Oscar’s lifeless body in his hands. He had been shot by the man with the gun and Bry had found him in the field. I fell to my knees, sobbing and screaming and holding him and willing him back to life. But it could not be. I had lost my dear lovely friend.

Now, it must be said that owl legends are filled with the idea of death, transformation, and rebirth. Owls are also thought to have supernatural powers; that they can become shapeshifters and sometimes represent mysteries of the spiritual world. We were not a religious family, but we were very spiritual. We believed in Life After Life, living to be kind and helpful, loving ourselves and our neighbors, thought of worldly spirits as kindred, healing in the way of nature and belief, and that nothing ever truly dies. That a soul (and yes, animals have souls – not so certain about some humans) simply transitions over to another field of energy. We believe that The Universe is huge and has open arms for goodness. In all forms.

Ever since that day, Oscar has been my spirit animal. His wisdom guides me and carries me through my life. He reminds me that my gift is just that. A gift. I lost one friend that night but gained so much just by knowing and loving him. I learned to listen to the little voice that tells me what to do even when I think I know all the what, and the how, and the why. He reminds me that I do not know everything. He still does. He taught me to be ever aware of my surroundings, to be diligent. He taught me that life is caring about something more than myself, to help those in need, to pay attention to the small things that make our lives more valuable than the coins in our pocket. He taught me that life can be sacrifice. And he sacrificed his life for me and Blue. He taught me what real love is.

Bodi, one of Blue’s offspring now guards the sheep, but Blue Dog would not give up her place among them. She lived to the grand old age of seventeen and passed peacefully in her sleep among her flock, knowing only love, friendship, and courage. She was as gentle as she was fearless. She was sorely loved and is sorely missed.

Glory died about two months after Oscar. Owls mate for life and we could all see she was heartbroken by the loss of her love. When she finally fell from the rafter, I put her in the wooden box Brydon had made for Oscar so they could be together again in their eternal life. There was no burial because owls do not belong to the ground. They belong to the air, sky, and night. We put the lidless box high in a great oak in the back of the field and left them there in peace, so that their souls could continue to fly and soar the skies above and swoop the earth below. The inscription on the box read:

Oscar and Glory,

Thank you for saving Blue Dog.

We will ever remember.