The Crows
Let’s call these wild guys pets, since I have also become their slave.
I am not sure exactly when it started, but I began to notice that the crows had started to call to me when I walked Jack out in front of the house in the morning. They sit on the telephone wires across the street, cawing loudly, and then swoop in to sit on the neighbor’s chimney and get first chance at handouts.
I have taken to saving food scraps and bits of fat, which they love, especially on cold winter days. I sprinkle a little something, sometimes cat food, on the driveway near the street, then go inside and watch the way they take turns picking up as much as they can in their beaks and then dash of to some nearby tree to feast or feed the family.
Some people think the crows are pests, but I began to care more about their welfare when I started reading that the crows are often the first victims of West Nile disease, and you should report a dead crow when you find one. That summer, I saw a whole lot of dead crows. I don’t think it was West Nile. It might have been poison, or some kid with a beebee gun. In any case, I decided to give them a leg up if I could.
Especially, because, for some reason I have this odd belief that my dead father comes back in the form of a crow and watches me sometimes when I am working in the garden or mowing the lawn. When I was a kid, I used to get a kick out of making sandwiches and ice cream floats for my dad, so I guess feeding the crows is a not-quite-logical extension of that.
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