Here we approached dangerous ground. Mother would pitch a fit if she knew I was collecting dead mice for any reason whatsoever, even for such a worthy project as saving an owl’s life. I sidestepped the question by saying, “Grandfather Tate and I need them for a project.” I hoped that using Granddaddy’s name would smooth things over.
He thought for a moment. “For Señor Tate is okay. I give you the dead mouses.”
The next morning, I found a small sack in the barn with five dead mice in it. Lovely. And so I spent my time wiggling a dead mouse on a string while staying out of reach of those claws and that beak. Not an easy task, I’m telling you, but Ollie ate them all. Even though I visited him several times a day, it was hard to get too attached to him. He was beautiful, but he was wild and dangerous. And even though I knew better than to compare his behavior with that of a human being, let’s not forget he had the world’s most disgusting table manners.
6
So what was wrong with Ollie? None of us could figure it out. The answer finally came from the unlikeliest place: the Fentress General Store.
Mother, who was constantly mending my brothers’ shirts, had sent me to the store for a spool of white thread. I waited my turn at the counter behind Mr. Holloway, who was counting out his money for a box of candles and chatting with the owner, Mr. Chadwick.
Mr. Chadwick took the money and handed Mr. Holloway his change.
“Oh, wait,” said Mr. Holloway. “You got any of that newfangled mouse poison? I’ve heard it works pretty good.”
Mr. Chadwick reached under the counter and pulled out a red box with a skull and crossbones on it. “This is what you’re looking for. They eat it up, and then they run off to die. But you’ve got to keep this stuff away from kids and dogs and cats.”
“How much?” said Mr. Holloway.
“Twenty-five cents a box. I know it’s kind of expensive, but then you don’t have to buy any more traps, so that’s a savings right there. And look, it says right here on the box: ‘guaranteed mouse poison, fast and effective.’”
Mr. Holloway grunted and nodded. He fished in his pocket for a quarter and plunked it down on the counter.
Up until that moment, I’d been daydreaming of various dinosaurs roaming the streets of our town. But then the word mouse seeped into my brain. Followed by the word poison. Then a voice in my head said, Wake up, nitwit, you need to hear this. Since it seemed important, I woke up and paid attention. I tugged on Mr. Holloway’s sleeve.
“Yes, missy?”
“Mr. Holloway, you’re going to poison mice?”
“Yep. They’re pretty bad this year. There used to be an owl about, but now he’s gone. Moved on to some other barn, I expect. Why do you ask?”
I thought, Because a poisoned mouse leads to a poisoned owl. And a poisoned owl will fall from the sky without a mark on it. And if it’s very lucky, it will land in the river. And if it’s very, very lucky, a girl and her grandfather will be rowing by just in time to fish it out.
I had done it … I thought. I had solved the riddle of the owl that fell from the sky. “I’m pretty sure I know what happened to the owl,” I said. “He got ill from eating a poisoned mouse. We’ve been feeding him mice out of traps to make him stronger, and you can have him back in a few days. But you won’t be able to use that stuff; it might kill him.”
“Well,” he said slowly, scratching his beard, “I’d rather have the owl, truth be told. He don’t cost me nothin’.” He broke into a wheezy laugh.
The box had a lot of tiny writing on it. I needed a closer look at it. I needed to show it to Dr. Pritzker and Granddaddy.
“Mr. Chadwick,” I said to the storekeeper, “can I borrow that box for a day? I won’t use it. And I promise I’ll bring it back in tomorrow.”
Mr. Chadwick was reluctant to lend it to me but said he’d sell it to me. He’d charge it to our family account but then erase it once I brought it back unopened and in good condition the next day. That seemed fair enough. He wrapped it up in brown paper, and I took off running with it at full speed. I practically had wings on my feet, I was that excited.
I made it home in record time, clutching my package. I ran through the front door and was just about to knock on the door to the library, where Granddaddy spent most of his time, when Mother called out from the parlor across the hall.
“Goodness, Calpurnia, what took you so long? I’ve been waiting for my thread.”
Ugh! I’d completely forgotten.
I made another trip, running both ways. A long, exhausting half hour later, I knocked on the library door, panting and puffing.
“Enter if you must,” called Granddaddy.
I went in and shut the door behind me. He took one look at me and said, “Are you all right?”
“Yes, Granddaddy. I brought you something. I think it explains why the owl fell in the river.”
He unwrapped the parcel and smiled. “Yes, I think you’re right. Smart girl.”
I blushed red-hot under his praise.
He took his magnifying glass out of the desk drawer and inspected the tiny writing. “Hmmm. There are instructions for an antidote here. Let us visit Dr. Pritzker and see what he has to say about it.”
“Shall I bring Ollie?”
“Ollie?”
“That’s the owl. I’m not the one who named him,” I added hastily. “Travis did.”
“Ah, yes.”
I borrowed my younger brothers’ little red wagon, and we put Ollie’s cage into it, bumping down the road with Ollie blinking and grumbling in the light. We got some funny looks on the way, I can tell you, but then the two of us often did. I was used to it; I don’t think Granddaddy even noticed.
Dr. Pritzker had just returned from a farm call and was unpacking his bag when we arrived. He looked a bit worried when he saw we had Ollie with us and said, “How’s the patient? Something wrong?”
“Not at all. In fact he’s getting fitter every day,” said Granddaddy, “and it appears that Calpurnia has arrived at a diagnosis.”
“Really? How’s that?”
I showed him the box and told him what I’d heard at the store. I could tell at first he didn’t believe me. But then he started smiling, and the more I talked, the bigger he smiled.
“I think you’re onto something,” he said. “Let’s go inside and take a look.”
We put Ollie’s cage on the exam table, and Dr. Pritzker pulled out his own magnifying glass and peered through it at the box.
“‘Antidote,’ it says here. ‘In case of accidental poisoning, combine one tablespoon of charcoal with one tablespoon of bicarbonate…’” He read to the bottom and looked up.
“Ha! I have everything we need right here. The only problem is going to be getting him to swallow it.”
So how do you get medicine into an owl? Why, the same way you get poison into him. You stuff the medicine into a dead mouse, of course. What could be easier?
“I’ll check the storeroom,” I said.
Fortunately, one of the traps held a dead mouse. Dr. Pritzker measured and poured the antidote, then took a tiny spoon and pushed as much of it as he could down the mouse’s gullet.
“Will you do the honors, Calpurnia?” said the doctor. “After all, it’s your patient and you made the diagnosis.”
For once, feeding Ollie felt exciting and not like some terrible chore. I tied a length of string to the mouse, put it in front of him, and tugged.
And do you know what happened? Why, absolutely nothing. For the first time in his life, Ollie did not pounce on a moving mouse. The only mouse in the whole world he really needed to eat, and he would not do it. He yawned and stretched his wings. I could have killed him.
I tugged on the mouse again. He preened his feathers. But I caught a glint in his eyes.
“What’s wrong with him?” I wanted him to get better so we could release him into the wild and I’d never have to do mouse duty again.
“Try again,” said Granddaddy.
I put the mouse on
the far side of the table. Ollie turned his head to look at it. “Come on, Ollie,” I muttered. “This right here is the yummiest mouse in the whole world, I swear. And it’s all for you, you lucky bird.” I jerked on the string, willing that mouse to look alive.
Ollie pounced in a wild flurry of feathers.
* * *
At dusk the next day, Travis and I towed Ollie in the wagon to Mr. Holloway’s farm. It was time to let Ollie go. He was in the pink of health and ready to return to his life in the wild. He’d be lots happier, and I would be too. The only unhappy one was Travis, but then, he hadn’t had to deal with the mice or the pellets or cleaning the cage.
Travis said, “Are you sure we can’t keep him? He’s so beautiful.”
“Yes, he is beautiful, and no, we can’t keep him.”
“Maybe we could train him to eat other things.”
“No.” I didn’t tell him that in my desperation I’d already tried chicken and corn and steak and peas and turnips and ham and even birdseed. He’d shown not a whit of interest in any of them.
“Maybe he’d eat—”
“No.”
We met Mr. Holloway in the barn, where he was brushing his plow horse after a long day’s work.
“I talked to my neighbors,” he said, “and they’ve picked up their poison. So that there owl should be all right.”
We went outside, and I put on the leather glove and pulled Ollie from the cage. Now that he was actually going, I felt a bit sad. I pulled the jess from his leg so that he wouldn’t get it caught somewhere. I took a deep breath and threw my hand up into the air, expecting him to rush away, but he only flapped a few feet and settled on top of the barn.
“Go on, Ollie,” said Travis. “Go and hunt.”
“You call him Ollie?” said Mr. Holloway, squinting. “That owl’s got a name?”
“Yes,” I said, “but it doesn’t mean anything. He won’t come when he’s called.”
“Huh, too bad. That would be real handy.”
Ollie picked up one foot and then the other and inspected his claws.
He looked out across Mr. Holloway’s field and ruffled his feathers. Then he was gone, a blur, a ghost, flying silently before dropping like a white bullet into the field. A moment later he rose again, clutching a small object in his claws.
Ollie the Owl was gone. In his place was the Tyto alba, who’d caught a Mus musculus.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jacqueline Kelly won the Newbery Honor for her first book, The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate. She was born in New Zealand and raised in Canada, in the dense rainforests of Vancouver Island. Her family then moved to El Paso, Texas, and Kelly attended college in El Paso, then went on to medical school in Galveston. After practicing medicine for many years, she went to law school at the University of Texas, and after several years of law practice, realized she wanted to write fiction. Her first story was published in the Mississippi Review in 2001. She now makes her home with her husband and various cats and dogs in Austin and Fentress, Texas. You can sign up for email updates here.
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
Jennifer L. Meyer is an award-winning artist whose work has been featured multiple times in the Best in Contemporary Fantastic Art annual, Spectrum. Born into a fantasy-loving military family, she grew up a big fan of comics, reading, and drawing animals (especially bunnies). Jennifer’s art has appeared in comic books, children’s books, graphic novels, and other media. She is the illustrator of the Calpurnia Tate, Girl Vet series by Jacqueline Kelly. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
About the Author and Illustrator
Copyright
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY, Publishers since 1866
Henry Holt® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010
mackids.com
Text copyright © 2017 by Jacqueline Kelly
Illustrations copyright © 2017 by Jennifer L. Meyer
All rights reserved.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Kelly, Jacqueline, author. | Meyer, Jennifer L., illustrator.
Title: Who gives a hoot?: Calpurnia Tate, girl vet / by Jacqueline Kelly;
with illustrations by Jennifer L. Meyer.
Description: First edition. | New York: Henry Holt and Company, 2017. |
Series: Calpurnia Tate, girl vet | Summary: Calpurnia and her grandfather
rescue a barn owl from the river and, with the help of Dr. Pritzker, dead
mice, and some detective work, nurse it back to health.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017023455 (print) | LCCN 2016050876 (ebook) | ISBN
9781627798747 (Ebook) | ISBN 9781627798730 (hardcover) | ISBN
9781250143396 (paperback)
Subjects: | CYAC: Veterinarians—Fiction. | Naturalists—Fiction. | Barn
owl—Fiction. | Owls—Fiction. | Family life—Texas—Fiction. |
Texas—History—1846-1950—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.K296184 (print) | LCC PZ7.K296184 Who 2017 (ebook) |
DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016050876
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First edition, 2017
eISBN 9781627798747
Who Gives a Hoot?--Calpurnia Tate, Girl Vet Page 3
