The Dead Owl

The youngest daughter rushed up to me this afternoon and announced that she had seen a dead owl beside the road on the way home, and emphatically wanted me to go back to where it was so she could give this dead owl a closer inspection.  

Given the cool scientific nature of this request, like a fatherly Neil DeGrasse Tyson I confirmed the importance of an immediate dead owl inspection to the world of science, and we forthwith loaded ourselves into the truck and roared off out of the yard.

About two miles down the road, the daughter waved me to the side of the highway, and she bounded out and away.  I saw her crouched over a white form next to the road, and then she was on her way back with it.  At first, she squeamishly would only touch it with napkins she found in the truck, but  pretty soon in all the excitement the napkins were discarded and the dead owl was examined with bare but highly scientific minded hands.

That's a barn owl, of which there are bazillions around here, and I suspect that a car got it last night.  It seemed youngish, and perhaps inexperienced in the ways of automobiles.

The downey feathers on it's chest were amazingly soft, and I'd bet they would keep an owl like this warm in the coldest weather.  The daughter was highly impressed with them.

The wing feathers were strong and stiff, and with some difficulty we saved a couple of them for the daughter's feather collection.  We were both actually quite saddened that such a beautiful thing met such a premature end.  At least we gave it the appreciation it surely deserved, even in death.  I doubt that any small rodents or other tiny furry creatures shared our sentiments.  

And yes, I made sure we both washed our hands when we got home.