Flaco the owl flees and our dreams fly with him

Flaco has flown the coop again.

You do remember Flaco, right?

He's the spectacular Eurasian eagle-owl that escaped the Central Park Zoo in February after someone vandalized the steel mesh of his enclosure. Flaco then evaded all attempts to recapture him and, after authorities gave up on such efforts, proceeded to make himself at home in Central Park, the latest in the park's lengthy history of avian celebrities.

But after nine glorious months, Flaco disappeared and Flacoholics — as his fans are known — grew worried. Where was he? Had he left for a more rural abode, joined the legions of New Yorkers seeking new homes elsewhere? Or had something sinister happened?

Part of Flaco's allure was the way we humans could see him as an avatar for our own desires to break free from whatever we see as weighing us down. He saw his chance and took it; we like to think we would do that, too, only to often discover later that we missed our opportunity. Flaco did not hesitate. Good for him, and us. Seeing a magnificent hunter in the wild is a reminder of what real freedom looks like. 

But then, suddenly, he was gone.

I heard the news last week and reflected on other sudden disappearances. Of the longtime family auto mechanic whose shop one recent day sported a "CLOSED" sign with no further explanation. Of the longtime barber whose business, seemingly overnight, became a women's hair salon.

I had known both men for three decades, and now they had vanished. I imagined it was for the better, and it certainly probably was.

And now, Flaco.

Feeding the consternation of Flaco Nation was the seeming inscrutability of his actions. Why flee? What more could he have wanted than what he had in Central Park? The park, after all, offered him the means for survival. A plethora of trees, plenty of space to soar, access to water and a steady supply of rats for food, and — in a bit of human projection to which Flaco no doubt was impervious — the daily love, admiration and envy of his Flacoholics.

It wasn't long after his second vanishing act — six days or so — that Flaco was spotted in the East Village. He was perched on an air conditioner, on the rooftops of a couple apartment buildings, in a tree in the sculpture garden of an artists' space.

And it wasn't long before folks who know about these things pointed out that for Eurasian eagle-owls this is the time of year for mating. Courtship typically begins in the late fall, and the theory is that Flaco is on such a prowl, having ascertained from all his unanswered hooting that there are no suitable owls in Central Park. He wouldn't be the first New York City denizen to head downtown looking for some excitement. And he won't be the last to realize he's looking for love in all the wrong places.

Which taps back into the same conflicted emotions one feels upon seeing a creature like Flaco confined in a zoo. He's out there living the best life he can at this moment but presumably does not know that as a species, the Eurasian eagle-owl does not exist in nature in the Western Hemisphere. Except for him.

He also presumably is unaware of the dangers he faces on his search — moving vehicles, glass windows, rat poison, and, let's face it, lousy human beings.

Nor is he aware of the power he still has to inspire and remind. The truth is that we all need to take flight sometimes, even when those around us don't understand, often especially when they don't understand. And there are risks in every endeavor, whether it's leaving one's home or closing one's business or seeking one's spouse or chasing one's dream.

We watch Flaco and imagine that we are him. And we are.

Columnist Michael Dobie's opinions are his own.

By Michael Dobie

michael.dobie@newsday.commwdobie

Michael Dobie is a member of the Newsday editorial board.