Not long after the morning sun had crested the rim of the hollow, we headed for the woods. As always, Shrek led the way through the old garden, across the dry branch and into the blackberry field. Between the big rocks and the creek, I suddenly heard the music of large wings and turned to see Shrek sprinting toward a barred owl slowly lifting out of the buck brush. Fumbling for my phone, the magical creature landed high above in the cacophony of branches, then jumped from one to another to another until I lost track of it. Still struggling to unzip the inner pocket, I lowered my gaze to Shrek bursting triumphantly out of the undergrowth with a headless gray squirrel in his mouth. Perhaps the proudest moment of his yellow life, taking prey away from a great owl of the forest, he pranced home for a treat and an hour nap in his bed snoring with rare contentment, the walk forgotten and the squirrel left on the front porch.