Musing: Wings of Doom

I inspect every nook and cranny of my backyard before releasing my canines into their domain. For those unfamiliar with Siberian Husky ownership, this might seem like helicopter parenting, but you’d be amazed at their capacity for trouble-making.

The tiniest breach in fencing or an improperly secured gate becomes an invitation for a furry jailbreak worthy of Hollywood.

Wildlife wandering into their territory risks becoming today’s unfortunate victim. Take it from someone who knows—prying their prize from determined Husky jaws is near impossible.

Any human possession left astray—hats, coats, gloves, shoes, hammers, screwdrivers, etc.—might vanish, only to resurface later as a part of some elaborate scheme. And believe me, each item on that list comes with its own memorable tale.

Mock my caution if you must, but I conduct my security sweep without fail. Morning or evening. Rain or shine. Only after completing my reconnaissance mission around the perimeter, examining every possible angle for temptations, do I permit their exit.

That’s precisely why, during a recent evening inspection, I came nose-to-nose with the Wings of Doom.

As the deep darkness of 9 p.m. settled, my mundane evening routine kicked in. My wild plans consisted of nothing more exciting than nestling into bed with a good book for an hour before drifting off. Not exactly the stuff of legendary nightlife, but I consider staying awake beyond sunset to be living on the edge.

Stepping onto the porch, I flicked on the exterior light and slipped outside, deaf to the indignant chorus of woos from my confined companions left behind. My inspection route began with the first gate—checked and double-checked. A quick trek to the yard’s far side confirmed the second barrier was equally secure.

My attention turned to the shrubbery lining the walkway. Any lurking visitor might consider itself safe from my eyes, but a Siberian nose will always flush it out. I stomp my feet along the stone path, the thunderous noise sure to send any hiding creature fleeing.

Which brings me to the grassy backyard itself. The lighting of our pavilion, from its central position, casts a gentle glow across most of the backyard. Only the chimney created a pocket of darkness, its shadow stretching across the ground—a pool of spilled ink. I kept my flashlight at the ready, though it would only spring to life if something suspicious caught my eye.

Skirting the pavilion’s edge, I studied the perimeter barrier with practiced scrutiny. Nothing seemed amiss. Maintaining my focus on the fence line, I ventured into the chimney’s murky shadow behind the structure. Though the woodpile awaited my inspection, my gaze remained fixed on the forest beyond, searching for any deer hovering near the boundary.

Thus, I did not see my foe until it was too late. I heard it instead. The unfurling of massive wings, spanning eight—no, ten, perhaps twelve feet. Each feather rustled with the brittle whisper of autumn leaves caught in a storm. The air whooshed into the vacuum its movement created, blasting me with a swirling wind that whipped around my face and nearly knocked me off balance. Its body, little more than a shadow in the beginning, expanded until it towered above me, a dark mass that seemed to drink in what little moonlight filtered down. Its mighty claws, curved talons rivaling ancient daggers, glistened in the faint moonlight. Blood dripped from the razor-sharp points as they clicked.

My childhood reading of Bram Stoker’s Dracula unhelpfully came to mind, flooding my thoughts with gothic terror. The Count smiled, and as his lips ran back over his gums, the long, sharp, canine teeth showed out strangely. The parallel between that literary monster and my current predicament sent ice through my veins.

I cowered, my trembling fingers sliding across the smooth surface of the flashlight in a desperate search for the switch. But before I could illuminate my attacker, it took flight, the downdraft of its powerful wings pressing me against the ground with the weight of an invisible hand.

As the creature rose into the sky, lifting its body above my head, its airborne silhouette took on a more familiar shape. The immense wingspan shrank to a more modest spread, still impressive but more native than supernatural. What flew away was nothing more extraordinary than a barred owl, disturbed from its hunting perch atop the woodpile. Its round eyes, which moments ago I’d filled with malevolent intent, now merely reflected the dim light with the innocent gleam of polished coins. Those fangs were nothing but a hallucination, a trick of shadow and memory playing across its ordinary beak.

My imaginative gothic fantasies morphed into an awe of such a close encounter with one of nature’s efficient predators. As the magnificent bird disappeared into the night sky, it left nothing behind but the gentle rustle of disturbed leaves. The grounds were safe for canines, though a few of more nervous glances into the darkened corners gave my racing heart time to slow.

I let the dogs scamper out into the yard. They might have cast questioning looks in my direction as they trotted for their nightly routine, wondering why their composed human had been cringing in horror moments before. My explanation that I was keeping them safe elicited furry snorts of derision.