I hate crows. Crows and I have a history.
Let me state for the record, however, that I am a friend of nature. Animals can usually sense that I am their friend and they accept me without judgement. Proof enough of my mushy animal feelings is that I once freed a field mouse who was dragging a trap around with three good legs. He was one handsome rodent. I let him go in the wild side of an industrial park, and watching him slowly amble away, I sadly realized that a mouse with a limp was no match for the bullies in the real world.
Anyway, back to the crows. Nature’s alarm clock. Makes cock-a-doodle-doo sound like a love song. Most annoying creatures ever. But being annoying does not justify murder, right? I mean, Rush Limbaugh is still around. So, in my first conflict with crows, years ago, I thought I would show them I was no one to be trifled with. They would follow me around the yard (high in the trees) and squawk at me. They KNEW that they had to focus on me. I started throwing things at them, rocks, apples, peaches… no reaction at all. (Except they seemed to enjoy it when a rock I threw at them landed on my car). They knew that they could dodge a small decelerating orb launched from a human.
After much thought, I collected some perfectly weighted sticks, and the first one I flung freaked a particular crow RIGHT OUT. The stick spun like a vertical helicopter blade and I swear it juked this crow right out of his stupid, three-toed socks. But the next time I came out of the house there were twice as many crows in totally strategic locations, and they had been briefed about the sticks. These “BIRDS” would follow me around the neighborhood, switching off like the CIA tailing a dealer in rogue nukes. Weeks of this, and the only outcome that I could envision was me, army crawling through the backyard with camo, face paint, and plastic explosives.
I cannot fully divulge what factually happened at this point, due to implications of criminal activity, but let me just say that someone else on the block was more capable of dealing with this nuisance, and it involved a pellet rifle. But violence met serendipity, when the unlucky, pellet-stricken crow fell in my yard, and was caught on one hop by my bad-ass cat, Zombo. A young neighbor boy witnessed this small snippet of history, and proclaimed to any who would listen that Zombo had just taken down a crow. And the crows went away. This is how legends are born.
Fast-forward to today. Zombo is gone (RIP). There are a hundred crows circling my house. They seem to recognize me. (Cue scary music, fade to black.)