The Owl Who Liked Sitting on Caesar (29 page)

Christians are clearly pretty confused about animals. The hard line is that, unlike us, animals have no souls, and so are simply provided as subservient companions – often luckless ones – for us to interact with during our own moral journey towards judgement and an afterlife. (However,
some believing Christians have declared that since a Heaven without animals would not be heavenly, it therefore cannot be.) Whatever First Cause you believe in – whether intelligent creation or chemical accident – logically all sentient life must be the product of the same prime event, and thus all living things must be connected. We travel in company; and a shared journey that divides at the moment of physical death – with one line leading to mere leafmould and the other going on to some higher destination – seems to me too much like special pleading. It smacks of bureaucratic rules devised by a rather self-important and pettifogging mind, and it offends my sense of the scale of creation.

Since Mumble and I were evidently both warm-blooded parts of some shared continuum, formed by the same processes and subject to the same basic drives, then it surely follows that either we were both heading directly for the leafmould, or that both of us had a further stage of the journey in prospect. I simply cannot feel that I am part of any really fundamental process that excludes her. And if – as seems vastly the more probable – our shared destiny turns out to be oblivion, then I am warmly grateful for the unexpected company of this particularly delightful fellow-traveller.

* * *

How might a Tawny Owl have felt about travelling with me?

The whole subject of what levels of ‘consciousness’ and
‘feelings’ animals are capable of is a notoriously contentious field of free-for-all argument. Behaviourists, ethologists and neurobiologists of various schools each have their own orthodoxies (I am tempted to say ‘ideologies’). Since they cannot agree on a clear definition of terms such as ‘instinct’ and ‘emotion’, there doesn’t even seem to be a common conceptual framework for their enquiries. Not having any kind of scientific grounding myself, I can only try to judge my own observations in the light of common sense.

We can never know what it actually ‘feels like’ to be another type of animal, let alone a bird. There is a constant temptation to project our own emotions on to animals, so I try to stay on guard against this anthropomorphism. I certainly refuse to use the word ‘love’ in any animal context – it’s too important for that. At least half of Mumble’s walnut-sized brain was a wonderful machine for processing sight and sound, and I can’t believe that there was any room in there for abstract thought or for any but the most rudimentary ‘feelings’.

But – and for me this is a huge but – she and I evidently enjoyed an individual relationship of some sort, and on her part she gave undeniable signs that it was based not simply on hunger, but on companionship. Tawny Owls are not a gregarious, co-operative species, but they do form long-term pair-bonds. There is a mass of recorded observations to confirm that these pairs demonstrate what dry science will only admit are ‘reinforcement behaviours that reduce stress-hormone levels’, but which in ordinary human terms
we can only call affectionate pleasure in each other’s company and touch.

Mumble’s behaviour showed that as she grew into young adulthood she made a clear distinction between me and other humans: if they came near, she hurled herself into the attack to defend our joint territory. Throughout her life she very often chose, unprompted, to seek my physical closeness, and to positively demand my touch, to which she responded with obvious pleasure. If she was startled when we were together she would come to me automatically, staying until she was calm again. She routinely dozed on my shoulder, paying me the greatest compliment that an animal can – that of trust. She very often preened me, as she would have preened her mate or nestlings, and on occasion she even tried to feed me.

Rationalize it however you like, that’s an individual relationship – and it’s the kind of bond that I have never enjoyed with any other animal, previously or since. I am not interested in analysing it any further, I am just delighted to remember how very good it felt. Sometimes, all these years afterwards, Mumble still appears in my dreams; and whenever she does, she unfailingly brings a surge of grateful fondness into my mind.

Mumble at about eleven weeks old. Her wing and tail feathers are fully grown, and her front is starting to show the ‘ermine’ effect, but there is still fluff on her lower body and the back of her head. Her expression, as usual, is one of lively curiosity.

The arrival of a pigeon on the balcony rail changes Mumble’s expression – over about five seconds – from benign contentment, through suspicion, to her full ‘war face’.

At about nine weeks old she was still sociable enough for a friend to come in and take photos one summer evening.

By nine months old she was strictly a one-man owl, and I had to take my own photographs using the bedroom mirror.

Breakfast time in the flat: Mumble flies down from Germanicus to visit me, and possibly ‘share’ the morning paper.

Her other favourite perch, on top of the living-room door. Here, she seems to have caught herself something small but crunchable.

An air-landing assault on something rippable in the kitchen affords a rare glimpse of Mumble’s legs at full stretch.