My new rural home of Boston Spa is very different from Harrogate. There, I parked on the street and struggled each morning with the 3-inch gap my next door neighbour left me to get out of the space. Here, I have my own parking space in a leafy car park. In Harrogate, thieves stole my bike. In Boston Spa, an elderly man from upstairs sorts my post every day and leaves it outside my front door. There, neighbourhood cats fought and did poos in the back garden. Here, there is an owl who sojourns in the woods nearby.
His name is Mr. Hoot.
Every evening, when it gets dark, Mr. Hoot sits in a tree and tells the world about his day. Or maybe he’s trying to find other owls to play with. I’ve made it my quest to find Mr. Hoot – he may look like this:
Since he’s a Boston Spa owl, he is probably splendidly attired:
Next time Mr Hoot can be heard in the woods, I shall go outside with my camera, take some smoked ham, and try to make his acquaintance.
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I believe that bottom picture is exactly what he looks like. Don’t want to be spreading rumours, but word on the street is that he tapdances too…
He’s a smooth operator.
He’s no smooth operator, he had no idea how to pick up the phone, and when he did he just hooted down the phone. Mr Hoot is a disgrace and should be banished forever.
Doc Owly
Owl Support Helpline PLC
Owls can’t pick up phones they don’t have opposable thumbs. If Mr. Hoot were to use some form of electronic communication, it would be a Morse machine. He could tap out messages with his beak.