Seemingly out of nowhere, although we are hiking with the dog, my daughter asks me, “Mom, can dogs actually be gay?” As if she’s already been in conversation with someone about this.
As a mom, this is the type of question I lay in wait for. Suddenly all the cooking and folding of laundry and seeing the same parents at school, day after day, seem worth it. I don’t have answers, only ideas. We enter the thickest part of the woods and slow to maneuver over creeks and around fallen giants. I present to her ideas on human construct, gender, and what seems to be a dog’s desire. We are batting ideas back and forth, losing ourselves in this intimate exploration, until we feel a darkness slide up against us, blocking out the sun, leaving shadows that crawl. The wind goes from blustery to ripping. Branches are cracking and dropping to the ground, usnea unhinged from above, catching in our hair.
My daughter’s hand slips into mine.
The dog starts to get jumpy, like something is under his feet. I see him looking up the hill, I follow his gaze. I don’t see anything, but I do hear a long howl. Not close, but close enough to hear, several layers of trees back. I track the howl with my right ear, listen to my daughter with my left ear.
“I just think that our dog is probably gay even if he feels like he wants to hump female dogs because he doesn’t believe in male and female.” It’s hard to mull this line of thinking over with the howling getting closer. I feel around for my knife in my bag. Why did I bring so many napkins but no snacks, where the fuck is my knife? My daughter stops too fast, too still.
“Mom, did you hear that?”
“No, what?” I’m lying. There is something terrifying about your child knowing that you are afraid when she is also afraid.
“It sounds like an Owl Man is following us. Do you hear that? There! It’s in the trees above us.”
I look up, trying to look unconcerned. The howl is long and thin, coming up from the bottom of something I don’t want to see. For a howl, it seems human, almost a wail. The dog is pulling hard on the leash, I’m struggling to get him back under my control. I find my knife and move it to my front pocket and make that same old prayer to my dog, If it comes at us, you’re going first.
I can’t tell if this is wind. Our forest is lush and not prone to making noise other than creaking. I have to consider Owl Man. I imagined him in a suit, a vintage brown tweed Glasgow suit, tattered from his talons. He crouches up in a tree, squatting on a branch, screeching into the wind till his wail gets under our jackets. He is touching the back of my neck with these sounds, pulling up each hair with the precision of a total creep.
“It is not an Owl Man. Nothing is following us… Let’s walk more quickly.”
Her hand tightens around mine. Our conversation is reduced to, “Watch out for that branch” and, “Here, let me help you over the water.”
As we approach the trailhead, the sound of wings explodes into branches and leaves. I scream inconsolable expletives, and we both duck, tripping over the dog. I look up just in time to see a pair of doves landing a few trees over.
My daughter’s eyes are wide. I realize this is a defining moment for us. I think about saying, See, no Owl Man, but to admit that I considered it would mean that there is the slightest but real possibility of such creatures lurking in the place I feel safest. And the truth is, there are scarier things than owls in this world, even when they take on the form of men. Perhaps especially when they take on the form of men.
“Let’s go home, babe.” And I pull the dog close and put my arm around her as we take to the roads, me still looking over my shoulder.
# # #
Kelly Gray (she/her) is a writer, naturalist and educator living among the redwood trees on occupied Coast Miwok land in Northern California. She is mother to a fiery daughter, two perfect cats and one untamable dog. She has been published in sPARKLE & bLink, Burning House Press, and write, bitch, write!, amongst other publications, and is a Cal Arts Scholar in creative writing. On her day off, Kelly is a raptor handler who brings birds of prey into schools and public events, telling stories of falcons, owls and vultures to all who will listen. www.writekgray.com
Photo: Hans Veth
