The Goshawks
You think I’m joking about the goshawks, but I am deadly serious.
This? On my head? Don’t worry about what’s on my head. Worry about your own head.
You should be worried about the goshawks. They get aggressive this time of year. The goshawks are protective of their young, and like humans, they will attack if they feel threatened.
You think I’m joking about the goshawks, but I am deadly serious.
I had a pet chausie cat once. Evelina. She got out of the house, and I was about to grab her when a goshawk got her first. The goshawk plucked Evelina right out from under me. I couldn’t stop thinking about those goshawks dining out on Evelina. Those bastards sure got a first-class meal.
About a month or so later, I found this rabbit with a wounded leg hopping across my lawn. I ran over to help but then I saw Evelina approaching. She was alive! Her coat was shiny. She looked healthy, except for a little dried blood on her muzzle and a scar across her left eye. Evelina pounced on the helpless rabbit. She only stepped away just as a goshawk swooped down and took off with the poor thing. It all happened so fast. They were in cahoots! — Evelina and the goshawks.
I yelled for Evelina, and she looked back at me like she was a sleepy celebrity being greeted by a fan. Evelina darted into the woods and I never saw her again. I blamed the goshawks.
Last week, I was walking the trail, and I was feeling better because I was wearing a new hat. I had purchased a bucket hat with the word DAD written on it, which was funny because I was not a dad. I swear I blinked, and then a goshawk slammed against the back of my head. The goshawk up and stole my DAD bucket hat. Can you believe it? I was angry about the hat, but mostly I was scared the goshawks were out to get me. I imagined the goshawks up there sharing stories about me with their brood. I imagined generations of goshawks warning each other of an ominous, powerful enemy (me). I imagined juveniles squawking chants of war in their nests.
Juveniles are what baby goshawks are called. I looked it up.
The following day, I went to the department store. I bought a BB gun, rounds of BBs, scotch tape, and a new hat. As you can see, the hat is a bucket hat with the word MOM written on it, which is funny because I am not a mom.
Before I walk the trail, the first thing I do now is scotch tape the hat to my head. I wrap the scotch tape around and around my chin and the top of the hat. I wind until it’s snug. Outside, I keep the BB gun close and loaded just in case. Do you understand? This hat, I will keep. This hat is mine.
Ian Crutcher Castillo is a Spanish writer living in Brooklyn. He has stories published in X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Maudlin House, Farewell Transmission, Necessary Fiction, BULL, VLAD MAG, SWAMP, and Wigleaf (forthcoming).
