Listen to your gut. No really! Listen to it. When you cut yourself slicing an onion and you think that perhaps you might need stitches I suggest following that instinct. Better to be laughed out of the emergency clinic with a Snoopy band-aid and well wishes, than trying to superglue your finger back together a week later because you didn’t want to put pants on and drive anywhere.

The history behind my relationship with owls should have prepared me for the turmoil my house has been under for the last week or so, and cautioned me to listen to the sudden ache I had in my gut. I had almost convinced myself that my somewhat irrational fear of owls was a bit over the top. The cute little owl magnets on my refrigerator are evidence of that. The lack of instantaneous goosebumps at the mere sight of these feathery creatures in recent years is further proof. The automatic cringe when seeing little girls dressed up in pink and purple owl printed leggings, with lacy owl headbands and carrying little owl purses had faded to a mere internal sigh. That is…until I heard one the other night. This little darling woke me up at 3 AM, with it’s unique”oooo oo oooo”.

As a young child growing up in the countryside where my imagination was my stage and my playmates were four legged, I had plenty of good reason to fear these feathery creatures; their eerie calls were haunting wisps of sound swirling through the night and occasionally I’d wake in the morning with one less barn cat underfoot. But no, it’s not the owls themselves that I fear but rather what they’ve come to represent. A strange set of circumstances or coincidences has led me to this point. And I’d almost allowed myself to be convinced otherwise.

Some cultures have deep beliefs and positive associations with owls. My Native friend is someone who has helped me become more comfortable in the presence of owl “things”. However, this does not change the certain truth that the call of these birds his been followed closely by a dark message for me – the loss of someone or something. The first was my step-father who, although we knew was dying, passed shortly after I heard my first owl in a residential neighborhood. The next brought a somber omen for my neighbor. I came home on one of those early to dark evenings, cold and crisp, to the call of an owl nearby. We do not live in an area much populated by trees, let alone birds. This was the first time I’d heard one at my house and ran inside with my heart racing. The next morning I was notified that my dear neighbor’s mother had passed on. With a smattering of other stories thrown in, owls quickly began to represent something foreboding and filled me with unease.

The lone owl that visited me at 3 AM wasn’t something I immediately recognized for what it was. The sound of this creature was softer, more delicate. Once I was wide awake I was unable to sleep until I knew those closest to me were safe. A quick status check assured me that perhaps I was past my “owl stage”. What I didn’t count on was the disappearance of my cat a few days later. I don’t believe it was anything similar to my childhood where Great Horned owls could easily swoop down and whisk away a small cat with ease. This owl was just a messenger… and I wasn’t getting the message.

My gut is sound in its messages. I just need to listen. If it says, yeah… that’s a bad cut, probably should get it looked at, maybe even stitches – I should either head out to the ER or stock up on super glue because typing with one hand is quite difficult. If it says, yeah… that owl is really close to the house, I should make sure all my loved ones… including the furry ones, are safe. Or shoot the f*cking owl.