One summer day, my husband came home to our western Minnesota farm with a little fur ball the size of an apple. It was a baby owl. My two young sons, Charles and Clem, and I immediately fell in love. We named the owl Rosco Lonnie.
We wanted to do our best to take care of him. I was worried because he wouldn’t eat. Finally, I thought, What do I like to eat when nothing else tastes good? Bread and warm milk. So I put a little in a teaspoon, and he happily ate it. This new diet let him know we loved him and wanted to help.
Our back porch became the little fur ball’s home. We kept his food there, and that’s where he learned to fly. He flapped his wings and went from one step to the next. Little by little, he flew farther and farther, but he always came back to us.
Rosco was very fussy with whom he let hold him. He liked me, my mother, and his favorite, Charles. He didn’t like Clem too much, because he would squeeze Rosco too hard.
People didn’t believe that he would come to me when I called for him. One morning, Paul, the man we were working for, wanted to show Rosco off to some friends. So I called for Rosco and opened the front door, and he came flying in and skidded across the linoleum floor in the living room. We were so proud!
After having so much fun that summer, we had to move and could not take Rosco with us. We shed many tears for our family owl. But anytime I look at this picture, I’m reminded of the many happy memories we had with our beloved Rosco Lonnie.