Did you ever have to read that book by Margaret Craven for some overachiever, extracurricular bookclub thingie at school? Well Sissy has to and that’s the only reason I brought it up.
It’s about a missionary who goes to live with an Indigenous tribe in British Columbia (Native Canadians?!). I won’t tell you anything else about the book other than the missionary bites it, but only after he hears a certain creature do something with this name.
[Since I didn’t ACTUALLY tell you the end of the story, no spoiler alert was necessary! At least I didn’t go all Murder of Roger Ackroyd on you’re a$$ and tell you that the murderer is the narrator, right?]
Oh. Actually, there is one OTHER reason I brought the book up. An owl has been sitting on my roof for the last week or so. At about 3:30 in the morning he calls out his rapid-fire question, “Whowhowho whoooooooo? Whoooooo.”
Uhhhh. Are you asking ME? In which case, thanks and this has been fun, but you can just SHUT IT with the repetitive questions, Hootie and the Blowfish, ‘cause it’s 3:30 in the ay to the ehm. The call for nominations closed a good long while ago!
In the morning, when I quiz everyone about whether or not they heard the owl, everyone acts mystified about what an owl even IS. Owl? OWL?! Nooooo….no owl. The kids haven’t heard him. Hubby hasn’t heard him. And the dog – who hears every noise both real and imagined, especially when Hubby is away on a business trip – acts like he doesn’t even speak English when I question him about the owl.
Ok, crap. A couple of things here: is the owl noise in my head bothering anyone? And if by some chance it’s NOT actually all in my head, I hope to High Heaven that Mr. Wise Old doesn’t start in with, “Who? WHOOO? New Stay at Home Mom, that’s WHO!”
‘Cuz if that happens? I’m screwed. I read the blog-without-a-spoiler-alert. I know what happens once you hear the owl call your name.