Crows

My parents were very generous when it came to the pets they let their children keep. We were not only allowed to have dogs and cats, but lizards, horned toads, snakes, hamsters, chipmunks, doves, crows, and even a red-tailed hawk. The only requirements we needed to meet in order to qualify for ownership of a certain type of pet was a demonstration of knowledge in the care and handling of the animal in question, in addition to the customary prerequisite that we were solely responsible to “walk and feed” them as required.

It was out of this liberal policy of pet ownership that my appreciation for animals grew, and I soon realized that the accepted hypotheses at the time that said animals had no feelings or emotions were pure hokum. I also learned quickly that animals in general were much smarter than the general human population gave them credit for. I think many people believe their dog is the smartest animal on the planet because he learned to sit for a treat after the second or third try, but in my experience even a wild animal can be taught with the proper motivation.

In some cases, however, an animal’s intelligence can be revealed by their everyday actions. Take for instance the crow. I have had a total of four crows as pets over the course of my lifetime, and let me tell you they are pretty damn smart animals.

Around 1972 or so my brother found an ad in the classified section of our local paper for the sale of baby crows. For five dollars you could buy your own baby crow, complete with pinfeathers. My brother did some quick research at the county library, (remember those?) and learned what he would need to do in order to care for a little crowlet. He presented his case to our parents, and got the go ahead to purchase two crows, one for him, and one for me. We were able to finagle two out of our folks because, as usual, I road my brother’s coattails. He did all the research, but he would teach me what he had learned as we went along.

For the first few weeks the crows stayed in a cardboard box in our room. At first they were no bigger than the palm of my 11 year-old hand, but with a steady diet of bread soaked in a mixture of milk and bone meal, they quickly grew to the point where they could easily hop out of the box. Though they still lacked the feathers needed for flight, they were very capable of making a mess of things in our room. It was at this point that my father stepped in, and built us a cage.

The cage my father built was simple in design, and was perfect for our needs. Using only 1½-inch, wire mesh stock, my dad made a cylindrical cage with a top, but no bottom. It was sturdy enough to stand on it’s own in our yard, but light enough for us to lift it so that the crows could get out when we wanted them to. By running a couple of long boards through it we gave it added stability as well as a place for the birds to perch. We would cover it with a tarp to keep the crows dry in the rain as well as a little added protection during the night. They were also safe from cats. Because they had grown up inside our house where we had two cats as pets, the crows really weren’t aware that a cat might actually want to eat them.

Every morning, before we were allowed to have our own breakfast, my brother and I would serve our crows either hardboiled or scrambled eggs. We would take the plate of eggs out and set it on the top of the cage. Then we would lift the bottom of the cage just high enough that the crows could get out, and believe me, they would be ready to get out as soon as they saw us come out the back door. They would usually fly around the neighborhood for a while, and then come back and eat their breakfast on top of the cage. After that, they were free to fly around for the rest of the day. Only when it started to get dark would we round them up, and put them back in the cage.

That is pretty much the extent of crow care. They really are a low maintenance pet once they learn to fly. The only problem then is the mischief they get into.

I heard some time ago that the ideas that crows like shiny objects, and that they stash treasures in secret hiding places are both mythical. I am here to tell you first hand it is absolutely true that crows are indeed attracted to shiny objects, and I can verify the existence of a crows cache of treasure. The way I discovered one of my own crow’s treasure spot happened because my mother’s 1968 Pontiac GTO needed a new head gasket.

My father is not only a genius of crow cage design, but he is a master mechanic as well, and one Saturday afternoon he took to the task of repairing my mother’s car. It wasn’t long before he had most of the top end of the engine in pieces on the driveway. I remember being quite impressed with my old man because it looked like a lot of complicated work, and I guess it was because he grew increasingly aggravated as the afternoon wore on. As my father’s patience started to wear thin, his use of colorful language increase exponentially. Auto repair seemed to exhaust my father’s patience quicker than most other activities, and so when I heard him start cussing out mom’s car, I knew it was time for me to go amuse myself in the back yard.

Most days the crows pretty much kept themselves busy by flying around the neighborhood, but this day they decided to torment my poor old dad. During a short break my dad had a banana for a snack. I know because I passed by the car on my way to the backyard a little earlier and saw the peel on the driveway next to my dad as he lay under the car banging away at some stubborn car part. While he was occupied with the immovable object, the crows stole the banana peel… and stuffed in deep into an exposed exhaust port of the engine.

When he discovered what they had done, my dad went ballistic. He told me in no uncertain terms that I was to immediately round them both up, and confine them in their cage for the remainder of the day. Of course the language he used was a bit more assertive, but that was his general meaning.

Being a good son, and fearing for the life of my crows as well as my own, I got them both incarcerated in record time.

Later that afternoon my father, after successfully replacing the faulty gasket and removing banana peel from the exhaust port, started putting the engine back together. When he had the heads in place, he started putting the bolts in that held them in place. My father is very organized, and most of the bolts that he took out of the engine were right where he left them. The rest had seemingly disappeared.

I found out about the missing bolts almost immediately. I heard my father’s booming voice as he yelled for me to “Get those goddamned crows and find my bolts!” You see it wasn’t the first time such attractive items as head bolts had become the property of my pets while no one was looking, and my father was quick to realize it was the crows that stole his bolts.

The good news was that we always knew to check the crow’s hiding place for missing items first. The bad news was the crows kept changing the location of their plunder so we often didn’t know where to look. The good news is, we were sometimes smarter than the crows, and knew if we gave them something shiny, they would lead us right to their booty.

I quickly ran around the house to the backyard, and let the two crow loose. After a couple quick laps around the house, one of them noticed me holding out a nice shiny new penny. He swooped down from the sky, lit on my arm just long enough to snatch the bait from my hand, and then flew right up to the roof of our house.

I watched as my pet strutted across the roof until he reached his cache that was neatly stuffed under a couple of wood shake shingles. He took his penny, and stuffed it under a vacant shingle.

I quickly ran over to where the backyard fence met the side of the house, and scrambled up to the roof. I made my way carefully to where the crow had stuffed his penny, and there in the shingles I found five head bolts, two rings like you would get out of a bubblegum machine, a small superball, one die, my mom’s favorite broach, a toothbrush, and assorted pieces of tin-foil.

I grabbed the broach, head bolts, and the superball, (all under great protest from my crow,) and found my way back down to ground level. I handed over the bolts to my father, who still wasn’t very pleased, and gave my mom back her broach. Mom was so happy she gave me a fudgesicle.

I took my fudgesicle, and still wishing to avoid dear old dad, went to the backyard, and watched as my crow gathered up all his prized possessions one by one, and moved them to a safer side of the house.

Posted by Jeff at March 3, 2005 12:38 PM