Thread by @hanrahanNY

Meet Owen the Irish Hare, who came into my life in September, somewhat magically, and turned out to be my favorite thing about the past year.

This is the story.

One day at dusk, as I sat at my writing desk overlooking a small patio garden in County Clare’s Burren region, a young hare appeared on the patio—and then came right to the door, stood on its hind legs, put its front feet on the glass, and looked at me.

I was stunned.

Hares are elusive. You might surprise one napping in the hills, but it will spring up and race away, zigzagging, and not look back until it’s a quarter mile off. @RobGMacfarlane, in his book Wild Places, in the Burren chapter, addresses their epic hill flights.

For the next week, Owen—early on, that name came to me—visited the patio at breakfast and dusk. It often came close. It hopped and sat on the low walls. It even calmly groomed itself, like a cat.

I’ve never in my life had an encounter with a wild creature like this.

I did a little googling of Irish hares. Along with learning about their smarts, solitary nature, and homes in tall grass, not in holes, I learned:

“In Celtic folklore the hare is linked to the mysterious Otherworld.”

Owen’s visits became the highlights of my day. I kept sending updates to my friends in America. One time he—or she—dashed past me two feet away as I stood near the shore. But I was worried. The local fox. And my neighbor’s Jack Russell terrier.

Odie is the terrier. I love Odie. Here’s Odie as a pup, during the two seconds when she wasn’t licking my face. But if Odie picked up the hare’s scent, there would be trouble.

One dusk Odie appeared, exhilarated, nose to the garden ground. Sniff sniff sniff sniff sniff. Trouble. Odie never came home that night. Like a Terminator, she hunted Owen.

Owen disappeared. My neighbor found what could have been remains. I was wrecked. I felt like I failed Owen. I was so sad my friends worried about me. Do you know Paul Theroux’s amazing story about the death of Willy the Goose? I felt the same grief. lrb.co.uk/the-paper/v41/…

I’d forgotten about these ghostly, twilit images of Owen until I gathered my photos today.

But then some extraordinary happened.

After two weeks of no Owen, I woke early. The sadness hit me again. I stood at an upper window looking out. Remembering the hare. And suddenly Owen appeared, down on the sand of the Galway Bay cove beyond the seawall at low tide. What??!!

Had I not been at that window at that moment, I would not have witnessed this. Owen hopped to the right spot, climbed the rocks, and headed to its home in the tall grass. I had earlier discovered where it bedded down. It had created tunnels through the grass.

That had been my one hope. That it had eluded Odie, ran off, and found safety. But I never expected it to return. It didn’t come back to the patio, though. It had learned. After a week, I had to fly back to America. I hope Owen’s still hopping around.