There are some woods just across from the houses I’ve lived in while in Marquette, Michigan. In our years living there, Finn and I got to know them well. Our daily hikes would include a morning route and an afternoon route, and Finn felt it his duty to mark over the entire Forest floor as we covered ground on each of our routes.

“Finn’s Forest,” I would imagine he was saying with each of his purposefully rationed ‘hikes’ within our hike. “I smell you, forest animals – you’ve been here all night – but don’t forget – Finn Was Here.”

Finn would come alive in all the ways his Australian Cattle dog genetics designed him for in those woods. He was DOG. Autonomous. Fearless. Authoritative. Confident. Searing in his focus. Clear on his function. He was primal, and it was exceptionally beautiful to witness.

In the city, while living in Ohio, he’s a very different dog. Kind of a whiny boy, albeit an adorable one, he trots on the sidewalks, is stimulated by the countless hellos he demands from all of his human friends in the neighborhood, and he’s much more dependent upon me for his guidance.

Something about those woods aligned him with his most authentic nature. The same happened to me.

One fall evening, Finn and I were hiking our afternoon route through the woods later than usual. It was near sunset – around dusk – and the forest seemed to be switching to night shift management. We were nearing closing time for humans and domesticated dogs. We could feel it in the air.

To my complete surprise, as we came upon an area with several fallen trees, a massive animal that my periphery could only register as a hugely fat cat with a wingspan of at least eight feet came off its perch on a half-mast fallen tree stump. It flew forcefully downward in front of me towards the direction of Finn and then up into a tall tree, where my mind could finally make sense of what this was and what had just happened.

I stood there not 30 feet from a Great Horned Owl that I’m pretty sure was taking its shot at Finn before realizing he was too big.

I could not stop staring; my mouth dropped open in complete awe and disbelief. I immediately started filming as this owner of the woods at night remained focused on me. Finn, unphased, kept running along doing his job, and I could hear his whereabouts thanks to the blanket of leaves on the forest floor.

The owl also heard the crunch of the leaves as Finn romped, and as Finn went into the area behind the owl, I got to see that incredible bird do its 270-degree head turn without even so much as a lift of his body.

The owl was so giant. He looked so much like a cat, with wings as big as a queen-sized bed. His eyelashes were so long and white, and he blinked in a way that made me feel like he was looking right into my soul.

After 30 minutes, I stopped filming and left the owl so that Finn and I could get out of there before it was pitch black. It was so difficult to leave that moment. It felt like such an exceptional once-in-a-lifetime experience.

I asked the owl if it had a message for me that day. He said nothing. I felt nothing was said. But after going back home that night and reading up on owls, I encountered this passage that has stuck with me:

“The owl is a symbol of intuition, reminding us to trust our inner voice in navigating life’s mysteries.”

The owl may have had nothing to relay that evening, but the memory of that special day comes to me semi-regularly. Those are the times – in my memory of him – that he delivers a message. I like to believe it’s a call for me to trust my inner voice at that moment as I navigate whatever change may be occurring within my world.

Interesting, he popped into my head today. 🙂