The Weasel and the Owl

The weasel’s nose twitched. A late lunch awaited somewhere nearby. He scanned the area where the scent was coming from until he heard a light rustling. His eyes darted towards the movement. He could just make out the tips of a mouse’s ears.

The weasel crept closer, mindful of every footstep so as not to upset even a single twig. He halted at a group of rocks where he could peek through without being seen.

He waited, breathing slowly, the hairs of his coat bristling.

A few interminable minutes passed before the mouse lowered its head and burrowed its nose into the ground, probably trying to extract a seed or insect.

The weasel dug his rear paws into the rocks, his muscled haunches propelling him towards his prey. He sprinted ahead, bounding over or weaving around every obstacle in his path without losing momentum. By the time the mouse looked up, the weasel knew victory was imminent.

He was less than a yard away. His mouth was drenched with saliva. The mouse had begun to run, but its tiny legs were no match for the weasel’s superior size and speed.

Out of nowhere, a dark shadow began to pass over the weasel, and a light breeze tickled his fur. Using one last burst of strength, he leapt forward, his jaw widening to expose rows of dagger-like teeth. He reached out to tackle his victim and bit down. He tasted nothing. He crashed into the dirt and tumbled head over heels until he landed on his back. Dazed, he stared upwards, his jaw hanging open, as a small screech owl glided off, gripping the squirming mouse in its talons and disappearing into a hole in the trunk of a tree some distance away.

Easing himself onto his belly and staggering to his feet, the weasel thought, I’m through losing my meals to those obnoxious birds. If it’s the last thing I ever do, I’m going to learn how to fly!

#

Early the next morning, trying to ignore his growling stomach, the weasel crept towards the tree where the owl had disappeared. He selected another tree a few yards away, scurried up the trunk, and nestled his body into an indentation where two branches met. He pressed his face to a gap in a clump of leaves and stared at the hole. It looked empty.

The weasel waited. He felt the sun’s rays warming him until it was directly overhead, yet there was still no sign of the owl.

Two more hours passed. Nothing.

Weasels are known for their patience, but this was getting absurd.

Just as he was about to give up, he saw movement. A small, grey dome, barely discernible from the bark of the tree surrounding it, began to rise. The ascent seemed slower than even the sun’s, but finally, the weasel could see the two great, yellow eyes within a ball of grey feathers.

And the screech owl sat, staring into nothingness, and occasionally blinking his eyes.

The weasel ground his teeth and clenched his paws.

And then it happened. The owl hopped onto the edge of the hole and raised his wings. Pushing off with his talons, he soared into the air and landed on the branch of another tree, all within a matter of a second or two.

The weasel tried to study the technique, but all he could make out was a mass of feathers gesticulating through the air, and then it was over. He groaned.

#

The next day, the weasel returned to his lookout. This time, two heads emerged from the hollowed section of the tree, one grey and one red. The grey one emitted a low trilling sound. The red one responded with a trill of her own, higher in pitch.

The weasel’s eyes rolled back in his head as he waited for their yammering to finish. Eventually, the red one ducked out of sight and the grey one let out a fierce whinnying sound, then took off in search of their next meal. It flew a bit farther this time, and the weasel was able to observe the way it flapped its wings just enough to maintain its velocity.

Each day, the weasel came back, observing the owls, eavesdropping on their banter, and making mental notes. But the more he absorbed, the more he realized how much he had left to learn, and the more frustrated he became.

One afternoon, as the two flirtatious owls trilled incessantly at each other, another sound emerged, that of faint chirping. First one peep, then another, until it became a miniature cacophony.

Babies!

The weasel continued his watch with a renewed sense of hope. He ignored his hunger pangs as he watched the grey owl pass a small rodent over to the red one, who promptly tore it into pieces so she could feed her eager offspring.

Although he couldn’t see them from his vantage point, the weasel could imagine them growing stronger and more confident.

Weeks passed and he continued to wait, certain it was only a matter of time before the parents would deem their young ones ready for their first flying lesson.

After a full month, the mother began to show strange behavior. Instead of feeding her young, the weasel watched as she removed food from their nest and, bit by bit, tossed it aside. The weasel nearly wept as he watched the wasted morsels tumble to the forest floor.

This continued for a few days until finally, a breakthrough came. One of the babies emerged from the hole, fluttered its feathers, and hopped to a nearby branch. Its parents stood back, whispering encouragement. Minutes later, another baby followed. After several minutes, they had all mustered the courage for this brief voyage.

A few days later, they were flying to trees thirty feet away.

Within two weeks, they were able to join their father on longer expeditions.

No demonstrations from Mom and Dad. No illustrations etched into the bark of the tree. Just a few days of food deprivation was all it took and the youngsters figured out the rest on their own.

Meanwhile, the weasel’s fixation had driven him to near starvation. He could barely move, let alone fly.

Depressed and exhausted, he hoisted himself out of his hiding place, clawed his way down to the ground, crawled under a bush, and collapsed.

He awoke to the sound of a gentle thud. He arose to wobbly legs and stumbled to investigate. Lying on the ground nearby was a small, grey lump.

The weasel tiptoed closer. The lump rose and fell gently. The weasel continued his approach until he was standing over the lump. Two wide, yellow eyes stared back at him.

“Look what we have here!” the weasel proclaimed.

The owl lay there, one of his wings bent sharply behind him, and squirmed. “Please don’t eat me,” he pleaded.

The weasel grinned slightly, licking his lips, then scratched his head in thought. “I tell you what,” he began. “If you teach me how to fly, I’ll let you live.”

The owl gazed in silence for a moment, then blinked and gave a slight nod. “OK, show me what you’ve got.”

“Pardon me?”

“Before I can teach you how to fly I need to see what I have to work with.”

The weasel shrugged, took a few steps back, and drove his hind legs into the earth, hurling himself into the air. He landed a couple of feet away.

“Not bad,” said the owl, “but your shape is all wrong.”

“What’s wrong with my shape?” the weasel sneered.

“You need to learn to glide more. You can’t do that with your limbs flailing every which way. Tuck your legs under you. Straighten your tail.”

The weasel backed up a bit farther this time, gave himself a running start, leapt, tucked his limbs under him, and pointed his tail straight behind him. He covered nearly twice the distance of the first attempt before belly flopping onto the ground. “Oof,” he grunted.

“You’re getting there.”

With each successive attempt, the owl offered a new suggestion. “Wave your legs up and down.” “Swing your tail from side to side.” “Faster.” “Look up.” Each time, the weasel became a little more battered and bruised, and each time, the owl assured him he was making progress.

“I know what the problem is,” the owl said finally. “It’s not your technique, there just isn’t enough wind.”

“I see,” the weasel replied, rubbing a sore hip.

“Yes, when you’re new to flying, you need a nice gust of wind to help lift you up.”

They waited, making small talk to pass the time, until the afternoon breeze began to grow stronger.

“Now! Quick!” exclaimed the owl.

The weasel positioned himself so the wind was at his back, charged ahead, and jumped with as much force as he could gather. This time he landed headfirst, tumbled, and crashed into a rock.

“Why isn’t this working?” he moaned.

“It’s working! Can’t you see? All you need now is elevation!”

“Elevation?” the weasel inquired.

“Yes! You’re just not high enough off the ground. The higher you go, the more wind you’ll have beneath you to carry you.”

“Of course!” the weasel exclaimed.

The owl pointed his good wing. “Climb that tree.”

The weasel obliged, scurrying up the tree and perching on the lowest branch. “Here?” he asked.

“Too low.”

The weasel ascended to the next branch. “Here?”

“Higher!”

The weasel ‘s heart began to pound. He had never climbed this high before. With a mix of exhilaration and fear, he drove his claws into the bark and pulled himself up an inch at a time. “Now?” he hollered, peering down from a high branch that towered more or less directly above the owl.

“Now!” the owl shouted, so far away that he was barely audible.

The weasel braced himself. This was his moment. No longer would he be just another lowly ground predator. Today, he would be equal to the birds.

He fixed his gaze on the tip of the branch where he stood, rehearsing in his mind all of the tips the owl had given to him. He sprinted forward as fast as his legs could carry him. When he was about to reach the end of the branch, he jumped up, landing on the very tip, then used it as like a springboard to catapult himself into the sky.

For a moment, he felt himself gliding, the wind flowing beneath his fur-lined belly.

Then he began to sink, slightly at first, then faster until he was turning somersaults in the air. His body slammed into a branch, which sent him spinning in another direction until he hit the next branch, caroming back and forth until he at last landed spread eagle upon a large bush.

The owl began to cackle.

The weasel, immobilized but still conscious, growled. “What’s so funny?”

The owl erupted into a howling laughter, gasping for breath, until was able to compose himself enough to reply. “You fool! Weasels can’t fly!”

“And why, exactly,” the weasel winced, “would that be?”

“Because they don’t have wings!” The owl once again burst into hysterics.

The weasel lay there in silence for a moment, then threatened through gritted teeth, “We’ll see who’s laughing when I have you for dinner tonight.”

The owl calmed down and said, “I probably deserve that. But before you eat me, I want you to think about something.”

“No more tricks,” growled the weasel.

“No tricks,” the owl replied. “It’s just that you’ve been so obsessed with learning to fly that you didn’t even notice something extraordinary.”

“Oh really? Enlighten me, then.”

“When was the last time a weasel learned how to communicate with owls?”