The Dreadful Day I Saw an Owl

How I learned to take omens more seriously than I'd like to admit.

My last newsletter continued a story I began years ago, concerning what seemed to be ghosts or spirits (or what have you) turning up and ruining the general vibe. Even to me, it sounds implausible, but there was nothing I could do about it.

Then again, have you ever seen a cat stare fixedly, all of a sudden, into an empty corner of a room, and hiss? Admittedly, I always assumed cats do that sort of thing simply to mess with us. I’ve never owned a cat, but my mother had several, and all of them seemed slightly mad.

But this is not the point; I wonder at times whether our universe is haunted by creatures which are, so far, undetected by science. For instance, there are species of fish living in the deeper depths of our oceans about which we know precious little, because their habitat is so out of reach to us. Perhaps, one day, science may be able to detect other creatures or habitats which are, for now, invisible to the human eye. I don’t know. Perhaps I only wonder about this because my formative years were spent in the company of highly irregular cats — you know, the sort who might unexpectedly, agitatedly hiss at an empty corner of the room, deliberately to unnerve me, as a means to amuse themselves at my expense.

Listen, I know, I know — in today’s world, all is mundane, and all that is not is heretical. I’m a fan of science, but I also think we’re a primitive lot, and I do not think that humans, in our present state and era, have attained a particularly firm grasp on reality. Have you seen the current President of the United States? He paints himself orange. As I think I’ve said before, this wouldn’t be an ideal time for aliens to make first contact, because that whole “Take us to your leader” conversation will be awkward.

“Yes, about that... ‘Now’ is not actually a great time, but if you come back in a few years, I’m sure we’ll all be ready. We’re just going through something at the moment...”

Because this, fundamentally, is not a sensible epoch. Everything feels troubling and strange, and we are — all of us — just trying to endure the strangeness as best we can. We spend our days trying not to feel too unsettled. Oh, and speaking of that, don’t ever look up “cats and schizophrenia” on the internet, because I did that a moment ago, and truly wish I hadn’t.

I had started to think about what I wrote above, about my mother having cats who were a bit mad, and then found myself wondering if cats are ever diagnosed with schizophrenia. Because this is how my mind works, I suppose. To be fair, I did try not to look it up. I was very resolute for a few minutes. Then I thought but surely I can’t be the only person who’s ever seen a cat hiss at somebody who isn’t there? Like, for no reason at all?

So, I didn’t find anything confirming the existence of schizophrenic cats, but I did find some academic research suggesting cat ownership is a risk-modifying factor for schizophrenia-related disorders. And abruptly, I remembered a girl I went to school with named Lydia.

Now, a few years before I was arrested on the border of Poland and Germany, I actually did visit Poland (successfully, I mean, and without being arrested). I think I stayed with Lydia for approximately five weeks. She lived in a three-bedroom apartment in Krakow with two other girls, both from Finland. One of them was training to be a blacksmith, which I supposed just happens in Europe. You know, I’m from Australia and I don’t think I’d ever met a blacksmith in my entire life. But there I was, on my first day in Europe, being introduced to a blacksmith. My mind whirled. I had no idea why Europeans still had blacksmiths. Then I realized they were a violent people, who’d spent thousands of years hacking each other to death with swords, and perhaps they just thought it best to keep some blacksmiths around — you know, as a sort of contingency.

Then Lydia introduced me to her cat — a beautiful black Persian named Moszesz (pronounced Mosh-esh, meaning Moses). Moszesz was a remarkably pleasant cat, and not at all odd, like my mother’s cats back in Australia. Which is why I was so surprised one night when Lydia woke me up to tell me, in a matter-of-fact tone, that Moszesz was trying to kill her.

I climbed out of bed, made some tea, sat myself in a chair, and studied the cat intently. You know, I do consider myself a good judge of cat, and Moszesz was perfectly sound. Some cats aren’t; some cats only want to see you come to harm, but Moszesz was a friend to all humanity, and I said so to Lydia. She seemed mollified and went back to bed. But that was the first indication I had that Lydia might be unwell.

But there had been other hints. She kept a human skull in her pantry that she had purchased from a gravedigger at a cemetery on the outskirts of Krakow. Lydia was a medical student, and... listen, some years later, when I worked at Harvard Medical School, I met many other medical students, and every single one probably kept skulls in their pantries for all I could tell. Why do they dissect human cadavers? It’s part of their medical training, and it’s also very sinister. And frankly, I don’t know why it falls upon me to point it out.

I was also unsettled by the fact a gravedigger seemed to be selling skulls to medical students. But remember, this was my first trip to Europe, and everyone knows how terribly violent they’ve been (note, all the fortifications and castles everywhere), so perhaps all Europeans purchased skulls from gravediggers? Maybe it was just a local custom.

Over the next few days, I noticed Lydia had stopped feeding Moszesz. I spoke with her flatmate, the Finnish blacksmith, and she more-or-less adopted the cat. Meanwhile, my concerns about Lydia grew.

About a decade later I found Lydia’s Facebook profile. And even by Facebook’s standards, Lydia’s posts were unsettling. There were mentions of demons and voices talking to her from the walls, and shadow people. But to my immeasurable relief, there was nothing about “locking up immigrants,” which meant she was still saner than roughly thirty percent of Facebook’s entire user base.

Anyway, a few years after my first trip to Poland, Lydia came to stay with us in Brisbane. She had dropped out of medical school and moved back to Australia. And when she arrived, she announced, in an overly dramatic fashion, that she absolutely must get in touch with Shane. He was a mutual friend from high school, and he was, she assured me, “in terrible danger!”

I nodded politely and thought about Moszesz, the cat.

Now, this all took place in that happy era before Facebook. And back in those days, if you ever lost touch with somebody from school, you might not ever see them again. Which obviously is a much better system. But what happens in a case like this? What do you do?

As an individual, I seem to appear — outwardly, at least — somewhat serious, most of the time. Or, in any event, I have a deadpan demeanor that some can find misleading. I frequently forget to smile. And this, of course, has led me into all sorts of misunderstandings with people who don’t know me too well, or who can’t quite tell when I am joking. Which is a pity, because I usually am joking, though I gather it can be a challenge to know when.

Then again, I have enough friends who can tell when I’m being serious and when I’m not, so I don’t think it’s all on me. But my point is that when I write these newsletters, you should always assume I’m telling the truth, because I am. Truthfulness is one of my foibles. Mind you, I can’t always help my tone.

For instance, three days into her visit, Lydia unexpectedly announced that Shane was no longer in danger, and that, “The danger has passed!”

So, I said: “Has it?! Well, that’s good to hear!”

Even now, I don’t know precisely what I should have said to her. I am worried about you, probably. I am concerned for your well-being. I never said to her (and I wish I had) I care about you, and I want you to feel well and safe and happy.

So I made jokes, instead. And don’t get me wrong, I was probably very funny, but saying the thing that people need to hear is an entirely different form of personal expression, and I’m still struggling with it.

Lydia returned to Canberra. But all this talk about my friend Shane left me thinking about him. In the week after she left, I somehow couldn’t keep Shane out of my mind. I tried calling him, but his phone seemed to have been disconnected.

Then, a few odd things started to happen. This will sound silly, but several times I experienced an odd feeling that Shane was actually hiding in my apartment. One time, I was shaving in the bathroom and was struck by such an acute feeling he was in the room with me that I actually turned and looked behind me. Which made me feel crazy, and also made me wonder if Lydia’s fancifulness had rubbed off on me in some way.

But things like this happen to me from time to time. Quite often, I’ll think of my mother, pick up my phone to call her, only for her to call me before I can quite manage it. She has the same experience with me, actually. I don’t think it’s too uncommon in this world. But if I ever find myself having constant, intrusive thoughts about a friend, I’ll assume it’s my subconscious reminding me that it’s high time I got in touch with them. There’s nothing mystical to it.

The issue was that I had so many intrusive thoughts about Shane that week that it honestly felt like he was hiding somewhere in my apartment. Which, again, indicated that it was time I reached out to him. The problem was, Shane had changed his number.

And again, this all happened in that glorious age before Facebook ruined everything, back when getting in touch with a former school friend required quite a bit of luck. Now, in that specific instance, it meant waiting approximately two weeks. Then I bumped into another friend from high school who, with ill-concealed delight (some really do love to deliver bad news) told me that Shane had died of a drug overdose, only about three weeks earlier.

I remember that afternoon vividly. I had been walking along, thinking of Shane, and talking about him with a friend. We had just watched a movie called Interview with the Vampire, which is based on a novel by Anne Rice. Shane had loaned the book to me in high school.

And so, I went home and sat on my back verandah and felt sad. Then, an owl landed on the railing and stared at me. It was daylight — the middle of the afternoon — and I had never seen an owl before. I hadn’t known that Australia even had native owls. I just looked it up, actually, and apparently we have eleven species of owl, but that one was the first I had ever seen. It was also the last one I have ever seen, now I think on it.

Many years later, I was watching a television show called Resident Alien (which is excellent), and in one episode, a character sees an owl outside her window. She mentions it, later, to an Indigenous friend, and that character stands up, suddenly, and exits the diner without a word. Owls, it is explained, are portentous to First Nations people in that part of the world; they are associated with death and the spirit world.

I paused Resident Alien, stood and walked around the house a little, remembering that owl that came to visit me that day. I remembered Moszesz and Shane and Lydia, and her dire warnings, and her sudden change of heart when she decided ‘the danger has passed’.

That owl, by the way, stared at me for about twenty minutes. “Look at that owl, will you?” I thought. To be fair, I knew even less about the Indigenous cultures of North America than I did medieval European history. It just wasn’t part of my world.

Today, I still don’t consider myself a superstitious person. I believe in science and I embrace Enlightenment values. And furthermore, I never like to do a thing without considering it carefully, first. But … if I was to ever step outside my house and see an owl sitting on my back fence, then I would, very calmly, go back inside, carefully lock the door, and — quite possibly — hide behind the couch. I don’t like it, but I think that’s just the way I’m going to be, from now on.

With chaste affection,

Kris St.Gabriel