Which Of These Two Birds Of Prey, Shot By My Great-Grandmother, Do You Prefer?

These birds, man. I hadn’t thought about them in over a decade until today, when it occurred to me that they’re not a normal feature in most households. I grew up with these gargoyles staring terror daggers into my soul. For whatever reason, my parents placed them prominently atop this cabinet overlooking the dinner table where I liked to do my math worksheets. As if simplifying improper fractions wasn’t hard enough already, I had to do it with the corpses of two massive birds of prey judging my work. Fortunately, I still crushed all my classes.

They were shot by my great-grandmother. That was a thing she loved to do, apparently. I don’t know much about her, other than that she lived until she was 97 and died in a car accident caused by her driving. Yes, she still drove at 97. Not sure what was more illegal: her driving with 20-3000 vision or the fact that she murdered at least a few endangered birds with a rifle.

We called her Jannie, but I don’t know her real name. I do remember her basement because of the bird case. This thing must have had over a hundred birds, all stuffed and perched on these little wooden stands. Whenever we went over to her house, that was the main attraction. She’d hold my hand in hers—all knuckles and foreskin—and walk me down into this tomb of winged beasts. She’d flick on a light, or maybe she lit a gas lamp, and the entire herd would materialize from the darkness. They were arranged in terms of size: the finches and swallows towards the front, the vultures and eagles towards the back, like a chessboard of feathered sentinels awaiting orders.

I made the eagle part up—I really don’t remember if she had an eagle. But it wouldn’t surprise me. I mean she had a fucking owl. Who shoots an owl?

When she passed away from blowing that intersection, each grandchild was allowed to choose a bird. My sister chose the hawk while I chose the owl. It says a lot about who we are: she’s a steely-eyed hunter who loves to rip the jugular out of things, whereas I’m a friendly, cuddly warbler who likes to think things through. Spot-on.

In any case, which bird do you like better? All these years later, I’m sticking with the owl. But a poll I conducted on Instagram has the hawk by the tiniest of margins. 51% favor the hawk currently. Weigh in! It’s in my stories.