An owl on the lam is a call to us all
A Eurasian eagle-owl named Flaco sits in a tree in Manhattan's Central Park, Feb. 6. Credit: AP/Seth Wenig
Perhaps you’ve heard of Flaco.
He’s an owl, now a celebrity owl, the latest in a string of avian celebrities in Central Park.
Flaco was a longtime resident of the Central Park Zoo, having spent the last 12 years of his roughly 13-year-old life ensconced there. But his fame has accrued since his escape. Though “escape” that might not be the best terminology to describe his departure.
The steel mesh of his enclosure was vandalized in the evening of Feb. 2 and Flaco made an opportunistic exit. Zoo officials tried to recapture him a few days later using a white lab rat as bait and plastic coils meant to catch the owl’s foot when he moved in to dine. But Flaco slipped the trap before his erstwhile keepers could close in on him. The zoo later announced it had more or less given up in its attempts to corral him.
Bravo.
Owls are magnificent creatures. They have presence, especially in the wild, a fact of which I am reminded daily by the snowy owl in midflight headed straight for me with those dramatic yellow eyes on my computer screen wallpaper.
And Flaco is quite magnificent. He’s a Eurasian eagle-owl, arguably the largest of the world’s owl species. A male like Flaco is not a big as a female but his wingspan still could reach six feet. His feathers are a riot of black, brown, orange, and white. His eyes — and with owls it’s always about the eyes — are a brilliantly deep orange.
His movements are tracked on Twitter by an army of birders and curiosity seekers who are now old hands at this.
They came out in droves for the stupendously plumaged Mandarin Duck, who was hot in late 2018 before vanishing the following March.
Barry the barred owl drew throngs to the park for the 10 months the brown-and-white female lived there before dying in a collision with a Central Park Conservancy van in August 2021.
Her death might be a warning for Flaco: Barry had rat poison in her body, enough to potentially kill her, enough to impair her ability to fly and evade an onrushing van, poison presumably ingested via the rats on which she was dining, rats now serving as Flaco’s fare.
That, in itself, is a triumph. After Flaco fled, zoo officials worried about his ability to survive.
When a raptor is raised in captivity, as Flaco was, it’s usually unable to hunt since it has not been taught how to by a parent. And yet, Flaco has been hunting, a fact confirmed by his healthy appearance — and by the bones and fur people saw him regurgitate near Heckscher Playground in the park’s south end a few days into his new life. Which only further endears him to us, prone as we are to root for someone who confounds expectations.
But it does make you think about his previous existence, this spectacular hunter reduced to a life of waiting to be fed, this regal soarer confined in a display and waiting to be seen, waiting for the see-ers to go away. To see a Flaco in the wild, to see any wildlife in the wild, is to see them on their turf, not ours, to see them in a place where they might see us, too.
Flaco is his own creature, but he’s also an avatar for anyone who yearns to break free of whatever coils bind us, if only we had the chance. As a species, freedom is perhaps our most powerful lure. As a nation, it was the reason for our birth. Vacation is an indulgence in freedom. Retirement, too. Our music and literature are replete with odes to freedom. And no metaphor of liberty rings truer than free as a bird.
Flaco is us, and we fly with him.
Columnist Michael Dobie's opinions are his own.
Michael Dobie is a member of the Newsday editorial board.
