For Thursday, January 22, 1997 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 739 words

Nevermore

My wife heard scratching coming from behind our 400-lb. fireplace insert the other day. She screamed my name out, and I came running. When I arrived, both our cats and our dog were eagerly sniffing at the hearth.

"I heard loud scratching. Something's in there," she said. I listened. We listened. Nothing. I tapped on the metal. I banged on the metal. I opened the door and stuck my head inside -- nothing but cold ashes.

"Hmm," I said. "I don't hear anything now."

"Well, there's something there. You can count on it," she said.

"Well, I'm not going to drag that heavy thing out until we hear it again," I said, and volunteered to watch television next to the fireplace.

All was quiet. We forgot about it, until dark. Around 8 p.m. I heard the loud scratching of claws on metal. I screamed "Susan!" and she came running.

"It's at it again," I said. I reached down to pull out the insert and Susan ran away.

"I'm not staying in here. You call me when you find out what it is." With that, she ran upstairs and shut herself in the bedroom.

I pulled the heavy insert about six inches away from the bricks on the left side. It screeched loudly. I peered into the darkness, but saw nothing. I talked to the noisemaker. "Hello, little critter. Are you in there?" I tapped lightly on the metal. Nothing.

I walked over and turned on a lamp. When I came back and peered in again, something brown, I don't know what, was looking back at me a few inches from my face. At first, I thought it was a ball of dark fuzz or a bundle of leaves. I reached to push it out of the way, and it moved. It ducked back inside and a tremendous rustling began. Dust and ashes spewed out. "Holy moley!" I said. I jumped back a foot.

As I watched a dust cloud form, I quickly designed the hierarchy of things I'd need to do right away. I called my wife. Actually, I screamed her name out. I gathered up the bewildered pets and scooted them out the door. I grabbed a flashlight and really big gloves. I returned for another look.

The light was no help. The critter had moved around the back to the other side.

Slowly, I inched the right side of the insert away from the bricks. I wanted it out far enough to see in, but not far enough for whatever was in there to jump out and attack my face like a resurrected alien.

I definitely saw movement. It was backing away -- a good sign. I pulled the insert out more, and stuck my flashlight in the crevice. Down in the dust, looking back at me, stood a brown baby owl. Its eyes were wide as quarters.

I talked to him, but he was spooked, and he wasn't moving. I took a yardstick, reached behind him, and gently nudged him into the room. He took flight immediately.

I've seen loose canaries with their clipped wings enter a room. They generally smash into walls and fall down. The owl lifted gracefully. As a hawk would circle a canyon, slowly, looking for place to land, the owl circled our living room. At last he lighted on our quiescent ceiling fan. His momentum caused the fan to spin at a fair clip, but he tucked in his wings and held on. Round and round he went. I stopped the fan with my hand, and tried to encourage him onto the end of the yardstick. Nothing doing. He lifted off, flew around the room again, and landed on the mantle.

I turned off a few lights, went into the dining room and pulled open our sliding glass door to the backyard. Susan and I stood for a while in the opposing doorway. We let the bird rest. We just watched him, marveling at his presence in our home. His head swiveled this way and that. He looked healthy and strong, fat on field mice. We talked nicey-nicey to him; then at last I held out my yardstick again. This time, he stepped up on it, watching me every minute. Cooing, and slowly, I walked him through the house and into the darkness of the deck.

He took flight immediately. He entered the trees and was gone.

Luck owl.

Lucky us.