Tag Archives: whiskey

Glum in the Sunshine

I am covered in muck. All the rain has caused the grotto to overflow and I needed to clear the catacombs.

Afternoon forecast: whiskey, ice & a book.

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Bubo’s Laugh

Have you ever heard a great horned owl laugh? Probably not, and you can chalk that up as a positive in your book. Native American legends state that if you hear the laugh of a great horned owl, then you are a pawn in a joke larger than you can recognize.

I recognized why Bubo was laughing last night.

For the past month I have been building a flying machine in the shed in the garden. In between the digging equipment and the jars of seeds, I’ve been hammering and bolt-tightening and following intricate blueprints that I drew up over the winter months. Last night’s gentle winds and clear skies seemed the perfect night for a test flight.

If you are about to attempt to fly, and nature has not intended you to fly, do not attempt it in front of a bird. They are brutally arrogant about their flying ability.

As they should be, they do it quite well. And it looks effortless, doesn’t it?

Perhaps I should have started on the roof of the house, but I didn’t want to be spotted by neighbors, should there be any midnight promenades going on. Instead I chose the roof of the shed, which – while not nearly high enough – is under cover of thick trees and I was certain I could quickly get enough lift.

I was wrong. It seems my fall knocked me unconscious and when I woke my goggles were askew and my ankle was smarting impressively. The flying machine sustained minor damage as well. I am not concerned so much about my ego – an inventor learns to be humble at an early stage – but Bubo is insufferable in this type of situation.

You see, I had ignored a change she’d made on the blueprint. A change that might have altered last night’s un-flight.

Most great horned owls are as good with a pencil as a man is with wings. Unfortunately, Bubo has beautiful penmanship. And she’s rather a whiz at math as well.

This whiskey will help ease the pain in my ankles and help me ignore her self-satisfied twitters.


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The house drips and shudders.

Bubo has returned wet and cranky from a bleak and stormy hunt. The drunken goat child has disappeared. The Kurundu Bird is singing with the rain. The Blue Wuzzelthump has been adopted. I am sipping whiskey and listening to the storm rattle this old house on the back of the hill in Brooklyn.

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