Shark? No, owl. Imagining one way to rid Bethesda of its swooping raptor.
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Version 0 of 1. An aggressive owl on the Capital Crescent Trail in Bethesda has reportedly attacked three more people. — The Washington Post, Oct. 30, 2015 “Beaks.” Scene 1: Exterior, a paved trail through trees, morning. It’s still dark, with just a hint of orange glowing in the east. We hear a rhythmic pounding but at first see nothing but empty asphalt. Then a lone jogger comes into view. It is a woman dressed in expensive exercise gear, an iPod strapped to her arm, earbuds in her ears. She moves with practiced strides, her pale legs flashing in the dim light of dawn. The camera zooms in for a close-up on her face and we briefly hear the tinny sound of music leaking from her earbuds: “Eight Miles High,” by the Byrds. The camera spins around to the back of the jogger’s head and we see a shiny brown pony tail. It bobs up and down enticingly. Music cue: Ba dum. Ba dum. Ba dum ba dum ba dum ba dum . . . Suddenly we switch to an elevated view, looking down at the jogger. The camera swoops toward her, toward the pony tail. We cut to the jogger’s face. She screams as an amorphous form — seemingly made from the shadows themselves — envelops the back of her head. Cut to: Scene 2: Exterior, downtown Bethesda street, the next afternoon. It is a typical day in this wealthy suburban enclave. The sun is shining. Mothers push strollers, teenagers sip soy mocha lattes, men punch each other as they fight for a parking space near the Apple Store. Cut to outside the Bethesda-Chevy Chase Chamber of Commerce. A crowd has formed, including Brody, the police chief; Hooper, an ornithologist; and Vaughn, president of the BCCCC. Brody: Mr. Vaughn, we have to shut down the trail. Vaughn: Not so fast, Brody. That seems excessive, don’t you think? One lady loses her ponytail and you’re ready to throw away the season? Our local sporting goods stores depend on people exercising in the lead-up to the holidays. Brody: It was more than one lady. It’s been men, too. Tell him, Hooper. Hooper: Look, the situation is this: Apparently a juvenile barred owl has staked a claim along this stretch of the Capital Crescent Trail, swooping down on things he sees as food or as threats. He’s going to continue to swoop as long as there are things that interest him: runners, hikers, bikers, inline skaters, skateboarders, unicyclists, wheelchair marathoners, pogo stick riders . . . Vaughn: I won’t have it, Brody. The trail stays open. Hooper: Mr. Vaughn, what we are dealing with is a perfect engine, a perfect swooping machine. All this machine does is eat, swoop, make baby owls and rip the hats off suburban joggers. Vaughn: Love to prove that, wouldn’t you? Get your name into the Audubon magazine? Hooper: I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with a man who wants to wind up inside an owl pellet! Cut to: Exterior, forest, late afternoon. Brody and Hooper are on the ground, hunched over something we can’t see. Brody: Why are we here? Hooper: Owls regurgitate indigestible material from their gullets. If we can find a pellet, we may get a sense of what this owl is about, what makes him swoop. Ah, here’s one. Hooper tweezes out the contents. Hooper: A barrette. A Washington Nationals hat. A Fitbit. A copy of Foreign Policy magazine. This is from our owl. Brody: What’s that? It looks like some kind of pelt. Hooper: It’s a toupee. Hmm. We should probably get out of here. Brody: Why? Hooper: It’s almost sunset. The owl comes out at night. Cut to: Exterior, Capital Crescent Trail, the following night. We see Brody and Hooper pulling a large cage. Walking behind the cage is a disheveled man: Quint. Quint: Chief, y’ever seen an owl’s eyes when it attacks? Lifeless. Black. Like dolls’ eyes. Hooper: That’s not true, Quint. Quint: I’ll find this owl for ya. I’ll catch him. And I’ll kill him. Hooper: We don’t need you to kill him, Quint. All we need is for you to put on the costume, just like we talked about. Quint: I ain’t wearing no costume, Chief, an’ that’s for sure. Brody: Just do as he says, Quint. Hooper opens a large trash bag and pulls out a man-size squirrel costume of the sort a college mascot might wear. Quint dons it, grumbling. Brody: Hey, that looks pretty good! Quint: Farewell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies . . . Hooper: Okay. Good. Quint, we’re getting in the cage now. You go over there and just move your tail back and forth. That’s it. Twitch that tail. Cue music: Ba dum. Ba dum. Ba dum ba dum ba dum ba dum . . . I’m taking a few days off. I’ll be back in this space on Nov. 9. Twitter: @johnkelly For previous columns, visit washingtonpost.com/johnkelly. |