There’s nothing quite like the soothing, pastoral charm of a Colorado summer evening. The sun dips behind the Front Range, the cows in the distance let out a low, satisfied moo, and the air finally decides to chill the hell out after a 96-degree day that turned my house into a convection oven. I throw open my windows. The breeze rolls in like nature’s Xanax. Crickets sing, the occasional coyote yips, and I begin to drift into that elusive sweet spot between consciousness and drool.
And then it happens.
SCREEEECH!!!
Every. Thirty. Seconds.
Not a gentle hoot. Not a whimsical “who-who” like some kindly old professor owl from a children’s book. No, what I’ve got in my neighborhood is the airborne embodiment of a car alarm. A demonic kazoo with feathers. And it’s decided that my house—my bedroom window in particular—is the perfect place to sit and belt out its nocturnal aria like it’s auditioning for a horror-themed episode of The Voice.
So naturally, I did what any sleep-deprived, noise-murdered suburbanite would do: I Googled the bastard.
Turns out, this feathered hellbeast is most likely an Eastern Screech Owl, or more probably its western cousin, the Western Screech Owl, because in Johnstown, you get all the amenities of suburban sprawl and the great fortune of living near “the country.” Yes, that’s right—I live in that magical slice of nowhere surrounded by cornfields, pastureland, and enough tract housing to give a city planner night sweats.
These owls, I learned, are tiny but terrifying. Picture something the size of a beer can with the attitude of a chainsaw. And despite their name, “screech” owls don’t actually screech. Oh no—they whinny. Like a haunted horse with intimacy issues. It’s less “whoooo” and more “wheeeeEEEeEEeeeee,” like a teapot possessed by Satan.
And this sound—this ungodly siren—it’s a mating call, apparently. Which means my sleepless nights are brought to you by some horny owl trying to get laid. Awesome.
But I’ll admit—begrudgingly—that this tiny winged banshee might be doing me a favor.
You see, thanks to what I can only assume is a divine curse or a rabbit-themed fertility orgy, urban bunnies have taken over. They’ve multiplied with the aggressive enthusiasm of TikTok influencers. My lawn? A salad bar. My flower beds? Gone. My dogs? Thrilled, because what’s better than eating rabbit poop? Rolling in rabbit poop, that’s what.
Enter the screech owl.
These pint-sized predators are nature’s exterminators, swooping down from tree hollows or whatever DIY bird-condos they’ve claimed in our aging fencing to snack on rodents, insects, and—thank the gods—baby rabbits. They sit quietly on a branch with their murder eyes, and when Flopsy makes one wrong move, bam—silent death from above. It’s like the Discovery Channel, but without the dulcet tones of David Attenborough and with more judgment from my dog.
They hunt at night, sleep in tree holes by day, and refuse to pay rent. But hey, at least they’re earning their keep by thinning the local rabbit herd. Apparently they’re also monogamous, so if I’m being tormented by one, I’m probably being watched by a second owl silently judging me from a tree while its mate works the night shift like a flying meth-head with a soundboard.
The audacity.
So now I find myself in a moral pickle. On one hand, this bird is ruining my life with its ghost-whinnying mating wails. On the other, it’s out there every night doing God’s work, turning my bunny infestation into owl hors d’oeuvres.
I guess that’s Colorado for you. Politically a four-alarm dumpster fire. But give it a few hours, open the windows, and you’ve got cool night air, mooing cows, and a tiny murder owl turning your rodent problem into a symphony of screeches and screams.
And honestly? That’s kind of beautiful. In the same way that accidentally stepping on a LEGO at 2am is “character building.”
So to the screech owl haunting my nights: You suck. You’re loud. You’re kind of a dick.
But I get it.
Keep screeching, you feathered little freak. Just maybe… aim your sexy-time murder songs at someone else’s window for a while?
—End Transmission. Sleep Deprivation Pending. I wrote this at 2 A.M. F%ck!ng owl.
