So……THIS happened last Saturday.

My husband was up early, moving the cars onto the street when he spotted a ball of fuzz, posturing and hissing and clacking its beak in our front yard.

A great horned owl; not still a chick, not yet a fledgling, out of the nest and out of its element.

It has been COLD in South Georgia, (which makes those in the middle of the country scoff and laugh,) yet does not negate our need for hats and gloves. This little one appeared to have spent most of the night on the ground, trying to keep warm and ward off anything that got too close, and was beyond exhausted when my husband heard “the kids.”

The “kids” were a group of “tweens” on the sidewalk screeching and flapping and antagonizing the bird.

They hurried away when my husband went onto the porch to check the commotion, but we knew they would be back.

The thing about a smallish town is that everybody knows everybody knows everybody.

And everybody has a special skill.

There is the “guy who knows how to reglaze old windows” and “the lady who knows how to grow daffodils in sandy soil.”

And yes….the guy who works at the DNR (Department of Natural Resources) who maybe knows what we should do.

So we called him.

And he called someone and they called someone and before it was all said and done, we had an amazing team ranging from a woman who works with the sea turtle rescue group (which also handles raptors) to a man (and his young daughters) from the DNR assembled in our front yard.

The owl was deemed too young to be out of the nest.

One of its wings was bloody and bruised and its gums were grey and not pink, so it was quickly whisked away (unceremoniously in a toilet paper box,) for x-rays and hydration.

And then……it was brought back.

Its gums were now pink, its wing not broken, its parents had been heard calling for it, its cause was not lost.

Tim (from DNR) fashioned a new nest using a milk crate (because it drains rather than retains moisture and rain water) lined with moss and leaves. He climbed it up the ladder and ratcheted it to our big, old, wise tree.

As he perched precariously, the second trip up, delivering the owl to the crate, I distracted his young daughter by asking her to name the owl.

“Will” she answered without even the slightest of hesitations.

And because, as her younger sister pointed out, “that bird smells bad” and…..he looks like a half popped popcorn kernel……. I present to you William “Stinky” Redenbacher.

One week in and he seems to be doing well.

My husband has spotted the parents feeding him late at night. And neighbors have said the same.

People jogging by, slow to wonder about the odd milk crate strapped to the big oak tree. They shake their heads and run on by.

And Stinky watches them and dreams of the day he can fly.