REFLECTIONS ON MORTALITY FROM THE BARN RAFTERS

By Penelope the Owl, Philosophical Observer:

Most people consider owls wise. They are right. I'm Penelope, and I'm a barn owl who lives with Em, Bob, and Maurice the goat. I've been given free rein to write about whatever I find interesting. Today I'm interested in traumatic death. Not a pretty subject I know, but it is one that stays on my mind because I inflict traumatic death almost every day by killing and eating rodents. It's how I stay alive. Mammals and birds kill for food; it's often bloody and grotesque, but that's nature. Humans also kill animals for food, but they don't need to. A vegan diet will keep humans well fed and healthy. Unfortunately, humans kill for stupid reasons: revenge, sport, and screwed up emotions.

I've watched humans from my perch for many years now. They're curious creatures who build complex moral frameworks, then break them with alarming regularity. They create laws against killing each other, then invent wars where killing becomes not just acceptable but celebrated. They weep over a single child's death on the news, then casually support systems that cause suffering at scale.

Bob—that endearingly simple canine—thinks humans are basically good but confused. Maurice believes they're hypocrites by nature. I find the truth lies somewhere in between. Humans possess remarkable capacity for both compassion and cruelty.

Last night, I caught a field mouse who had been living contentedly until our paths crossed. His death was quick—I'm skilled at what I do—but I don't delude myself about the brutality of the act. I needed to eat; he needed not to be eaten. Nature resolved this conflict in my favor, as it has countless times across millions of years.

But humans? You've transcended this basic equation. You can choose not to cause suffering. You've developed agriculture, refrigeration, and global supply chains. You can order tempeh and quinoa from your smartphones. Yet many of you still insist on participating in industries that inflict prolonged suffering on beings capable of fear and pain.

I'm not judging, merely observing. When I kill, I don't torture. I don't kill more than I need. I don't kill for entertainment or because I'm angry. My victims don't spend their brief lives in cramped cages, never feeling sunlight.

Perhaps being "wise" simply means acknowledging the reality of one's place in the world without embellishment. I kill to live. That's my truth. What's yours?

From my rafters, I watch Em struggle with these questions too. He still eats meat occasionally but buys it from local farms where animals lived decently. Is that compromise or cowardice? The philosophical debates at our dinner table can get quite heated—especially when Maurice is feeling particularly righteous about grass-based diets.

I don't have all the answers. I'm just an owl with a keyboard and too much time to think between hunts. But I do know that awareness is the beginning of wisdom. So tonight, whatever you eat, whatever choices you make, I only ask that you make them consciously.

Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a rustling in the field that requires my attention.

With feathered contemplation, Penelope