They Call Me Crow Friend, They Call Me That Daft Woman

I started feeding the crows in hopes that they might defend my roof from nesting seagulls.

It didn’t work.

I discovered that there’s a hierarchy in the world of asshole birds and although crows are capable of being impressive assholes, they are lower on the scale than the seagulls. A pair of helicopter seagull parents defended my terrace against me for a few months and then disappeared after their fledgling took to the skies.

The crows returned after the first snowfall, with the remorseful look of a boyfriend who has been on a bender. Because I am soft-hearted and an idiot, I started feeding them again. Soon, I heard a crow’s caw whenever I went onto the terrace, announcing to the others that the woman with the food was there.

It took months for any of them to work out that the me sitting at my desk watching them through the window was the same me that appeared on the other side of the building and then came around to leave food out. I began to stall, sitting at my desk and watching them, waiting until one looked my way before I would go out with the food. The largest of the crows quickly got the hang of this, pacing over to my window and looking straight at me in anticipation of a handful of dog kibble.

A week or so later, I was sitting at the computer concentrating on my work when I became aware of loud croaking that seemingly had been going on for some time. I was just starting to wonder what the racket was, when I realized that the large crow was right outside my window, staring straight at me and cawing belligerently to get me to look outside and make eye contact so that it could get fed.

Soon other crows got wind of this and began to hang out on the ledge. A jackdaw came to the window and pretended to be my crow, with coquettish glances into the apartment to see if I was watching. I was not fooled.

It was easy to tell the difference between random corvids and my crow, because he was the only one who stood there and stared at me through the window. Also, he was not a jackdaw.

I named him Gary.

We had a rough relationship moment when I had a Zoom conference first thing in the morning. I sat down at the computer with a nice blouse on over my pyjamas and was happily explaining something when I saw Gary out of the corner of my eye. I motioned in the universal gesture for “just a minute, I’m on a call” but Gary didn’t seem to understand. I spent the rest of the meeting desperately trying not to make eye contact with a crow standing at my window looking increasingly puffed up and angry.

Since then, Gary and I have fallen into a routine. In the morning, around 8:30, I make a coffee and sit down at the computer. Gary walks along the ledge and stares at me. He watches me get the food out of the drawer and walk out the far side of the flat to the terrace. His partner, who I have named Pippin, stays on the opposite side of the ledge, perfectly positioned to see me come around the corner.  I put two pieces of kibble out immediately, so that Gary and Pippin are guaranteed at least a snack; as I walk past, they fly over and grab them. Then I place a large handful of kibble on the ledge near my window. As I back away,  a scrum of crows and jackdaws  descend, trying to pick up as much kibble as possible before I return to my desk.

Gary wades in like a mob boss, threatening the others until he has more kibble than he can comfortably carry away. Once I sit down, the birds scatter and Gary and Pippin collect the last crumbs at their leisure.

One morning, Pippin showed up without Gary. I looked out and saw Gary at the far end of the terrace, watching. I imagined that morning’s argument between them. “No, I always ask, you go this time. All you have to do is look at her.” Pippin peered at me but then quickly turned away when I looked back, as if to say, I’m not asking you for food or anything; this is just a particularly nice bit of ledge. I didn’t even notice you were there, honest. I took out a handful of kibble and half a dozen corvids vacuumed it up. But then, a couple of hours later, Gary showed up on the ledge and glared. Was he hungry again? Or had I been tricked? I can’t tell the crows apart at the best of time, so although that morning it had looked like Gary in the distance, now I wasn’t sure. Did Pippin maybe have a new feathered friend-with-benefits on the side?

I was getting much too involved in crow politics.

The crows started cawing when I opened my curtains in the morning, alert to the idea that food might be coming soon. I’d hear crows calling when I walked through town and couldn’t shake the idea that they were all talking about me.  One night, I stepped out on the terrace to watch the sunset and found that the crows had gathered for roosting on the roof next to mine.

As I watched hundreds of crows circle and gather, I considered that perhaps letting Gary see where I kept the kibble had been a bad move.

When does a murder become a massacre?

But now it’s getting really out of hand.

This morning, I wake up at five am and crawl out of bed, miserable and out of sorts. At seven, still dark in this part of the world, I give up on being productive and go back to bed. It’s 10:30 before I get up again. I turn on the computer and see Gary pacing back and forth on the ledge. I nod to him in acknowledgement but first go to make my coffee.

I’m not sure what made me glance towards the living room window. Gary is right there, peering into the apartment, trying to see what I’m doing. Shaken, I dump my mug on my desk and go to the drawer with the food. Gary caws to the others to let them know. Note: I am still inside. My movements in my apartment are now being reported on to the greater corvid collective.

If you don’t hear from me again, you know who to blame.