How, exactly, does one dispose of an owl in the living room—a live, wild great horned owl two feet long, armed with talons that look as if they could rip open an artery, staring defiantly from a perch on your ceiling fan? My friend Don, who had moved to Tucson from the gentler wilds of West Virginia, didn’t know, but he at least was smart enough not to try it himself.
The first animal-control officer to respond was baffled; he normally just handled rattlesnakes—and speak of the devil, he told Don, there’s one now, on your front steps. This called for a backup, and it took the two officers three hours to capture raptor and reptile. After all this they decided they probably should check Don’s house for any further guests, and in fact there was one. A tarantula was creeping through the open front door.
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