The Moon, the Dog, and the Devil Bird

Since I couldn’t sleep last night, I decided to wander outside with Buddy to see what all the fuss was about the so-called Super Moon.

Supposedly, it was going to be bigger and brighter than usual, though, to me, the moon has always looked plenty super. Still, I figured I might as well see it for myself, because sleep wasn’t coming anytime soon.

The air had that chilled, damp feeling that hangs around in early autumn, and the kind of stillness that makes you second-guess every little sound. Buddy trotted beside me, tail swishing like a metronome, happy to be part of any adventure that didn’t involve a bath or a visit to the vet.

For the first time in weeks, the sky was clear. No smoky haze, no high clouds to blur the view, just a dark canvas freckled with stars and the brilliant, round moon hanging like a lantern over the neighborhood.

I stood there, looking up at the Man in the Moon, half expecting him to wink back at me. The moonlight painted the yard in silver and shadow, the kind of light that makes ordinary things, like the garden hose and the barbecue grill, look like relics from another world.

Buddy, for his part, wasn’t as interested in astronomy. He stared at me like I’d lost my mind for standing motionless in the grass, head tilted back, mouth half open.

Dogs don’t understand celestial beauty. They appreciate food, play, and whether or not something might be hiding under the shed.

Then, from the darkness beyond the fence, came a sound so vile and unexpected it nearly stopped my heart.

If you’ve never heard a peacock scream, count yourself lucky. It’s not a dignified “caw” or a noble “cry.”

It’s a banshee’s wail trapped inside a tropical bird. It’s the sound of pure panic squeezed through a feathered throat.

Buddy yelped so loud he startled himself, then took off like a shot toward the back door. He didn’t even look back. His claws tore up a patch of grass, and his tail disappeared into the safety of the porch light before I could so much as whisper his name.

I was still laughing about it, just a chuckle, nothing mean, when the peacock screamed again.

Now, I’m not a man easily rattled, but something about that sound hit a nerve I didn’t know I had. It wasn’t just loud, it was personal, like the bird had looked directly into my soul and decided to scare the living daylights out of it.

My spine went cold. My knees twitched.

Then, before I knew what was happening, I was running too, legs pumping, slippers flying, the whole bit. I made it to the back door, slammed it shut, and twisted the lock like the Devil himself was on my heels.

Buddy sat there panting, eyes wide, as if to say, “You see what I’ve been telling you all these years? The outside is dangerous.”

For a minute, the two of us just stared at each other, breathing heavy, trying to figure out what had just happened. Then I started laughing again, full and hard this time. Buddy tilted his head, unsure whether to join in or call for backup.

“That,” I told him between gasps, “is one unholy bird.”

The peacock belonged to our neighbor, Mrs. Danner, a retired art teacher who collects stray animals the way some people collect salt shakers. Over the years, she’d taken in everything from feral cats to an injured goat. The peacock was her latest project, a rescue from a petting zoo that had gone out of business.

According to Mrs. Danner, his name was Percival, but according to me, it is Spawn of Chaos.

The next morning, I saw her out by the fence scattering feed. Percival strutted beside her, his tail feathers dragging like a royal train. The sunlight hit those feathers just right, and for a second, I almost forgave him for last night’s auditory assault.

“Morning, Tom!” she called out cheerfully. “Wasn’t that moon something?”

“Oh, it was,” I said. “Almost as impressive as your bird’s singing voice.”

She laughed like she’d heard that one before. “He does get a little vocal after dark. He doesn’t like the moon. I think he thinks it’s another peacock trying to outshine him.”

I stared at her, waiting for the punchline, but she just went on tossing grain like that was the most reasonable explanation in the world.

“Percival doesn’t like competition,” she added. “That moon last night probably set him off.”

I nodded slowly, pretending it made sense. “Well, you might let him know that he scared ten years off my life, and Buddy hasn’t left the couch since.”

Mrs. Danner apologized, a sparkle in her eye. She liked that bird, and I could tell she thought of Percival as some misunderstood genius of the poultry world.

This morning, after work, I sat out on the back porch again, Buddy beside me, the two of us watching the yard with quiet suspicion. When Percival started up again, it wasn’t nearly as jarring.

Maybe I was expecting it this time, or the absurdity of it had worn off. Either way, it just sounded like part of the night—like the crickets or the hum of the streetlight.

Buddy still didn’t like it. Every time the bird screamed, his ears went flat, and he’d glance at me as if asking, “Why don’t we move to the city?”

But I stayed put. Something about that wild, ridiculous sound, so full of attitude and life, seemed to fit my mood perfectly.

It reminded me that the world doesn’t always behave the way we expect it to. Sometimes, beauty comes with a shriek instead of a song.

Sometimes, the neighbor’s peacock sounds like an exorcism in progress. And sometimes, the only thing you can do is laugh, run for cover, and then come back outside anyway.

Buddy sighed and lay his head on my foot.

I thought about heading in, but I didn’t. Instead, I sat there, listening to the soft rustle of the trees, the quiet chirping of insects, and yes, the occasional infernal scream from Percival.

Some nights just aren’t meant for sleep. They’re for moonlight, laughter, and a reminder that life, even at its strangest, is still worth stepping outside for.

Buddy gave a little snore, the kind that sounds like a rusty hinge, and I smiled.

And somewhere over the fence, the devil bird screamed again, reminding us who was really in charge.