Flyaway (30 page)

I thought of Lena, the first crow I had ever known, for whom I could still feel sharp pangs of loss even though years had gone by. I thought of the songbirds, the herons, the redtails, all the ones who had followed her despite my best efforts. For days I opened the door to the Crow Mahal, my head crowded with lost birds, only to have George effortlessly nudge them aside. I was determined that he bond with Gracie, and not with me; but evidently George believed there was room for both of us, and his will was far stronger than mine.

One afternoon I watched them from the deck, so engrossed that I startled
at the ring of the telephone. Once again, someone had forgotten to turn the sound off. “I heard you had closed down, but I have an injured blue jay and I wanted to see for myself,” came Tanya's voice on the answering machine. “I should have known! You always acted as if you cared about these birds, but when you come right down to it you won't lift a finger to help them!”

Fledgling American Crows

A small knot twisted in my stomach. I heard the sound of splashing and lifted my eyes to the Crow Mahal, where George and Gracie were vying for space, each energetically dipping their heads, shrugging their wings, and wagging their tails as water droplets flew in all directions. Slowly the knot began to loosen.

“I guess you can't please everyone,” I murmured.

“Look at that crow,” said Mac, putting his cereal spoon down and pointing through the kitchen window. “He's limping!”

Five crows had landed on the slope and were busily pecking at the seeds I had scattered. I could identify Nacho by his voice and behavior, but I couldn't tell Lo and Behold from the wild crows who sometimes came by. One of the crows was definitely limping; all I could say was it wasn't Nacho. I grabbed my binoculars, but couldn't see any sign of a wound.

“Maybe something bit him,” said Skye.

The slope was a busy place that morning. Songbirds flew to and from the feeders; in addition to the crows a pair of blue jays, a squirrel, and several chipmunks were combing the soil, looking for food. As the four of us watched, the crow limped close to one of the chipmunks, studiously ignoring him, seemingly engrossed in his own hunt for seeds. But suddenly the crow jerked to the side, grabbed the chipmunk, and took off, the chipmunk struggling mightily in his beak. We all watched, wide-eyed, as the two of them disappeared over the hill.

“What does he think he is, a hawk?” I exclaimed.

“The poor chipmunk!” cried Skye. “Is he going to kill him?”

“Have you ever seen a chipmunk's teeth?” said Mac. “Now that crow will be limping with both legs.”

In less than a minute the crow returned, chipmunk-less, and resumed looking for seeds.

“When you release George and Gracie, tell them to stay away from that bird,” said John. “He's a bad influence.”

George and Gracie were almost eating on their own, and they spent most of their day outside in the Crow Mahal. One day I arrived with a large rectangular child's mirror. George strode up to his image, gave it a few hard pokes, peered behind it, and finally pushed the whole thing over onto Gracie, who slithered out from beneath it and took refuge on one of the perches. After I righted the mirror and tied it to the side of the enclosure, Gracie approached it suspiciously. For a few moments she stood before it, immobile; then she walked over to her food dish, picked up a grape in her beak, returned to the mirror, and studied herself from different angles. She dropped the grape, picked up a strawberry, returned to the mirror, and repeated the process. From then on whenever I introduced a new food item Gracie would pick it up, carry it over to the mirror, and observe herself holding it before she ate it. George quickly caught on, although he was never as methodical as Gracie. Once George impaled an apple slice with his lower beak and couldn't get it off. He walked over and peered into the mirror, wobbling his apple-festooned beak up and down until my laughter destroyed the mood and he slapped it off with his foot.

 

By the time both crows were self-feeding their eyes were slowly starting to change from their juvenile blue to adult brown. It was time to move them into the flight cage, where they would have space to explore and begin to fly. Both crows seemed delighted by their new surroundings: George had more room to play, Gracie more room to avoid human contact. I wondered if George would begin to distance himself from me, as most of the other formerly friendly young crows had done once they entered the flight cage, but he stuck to his guns. Whenever I walked toward the flight cage I'd see the two crows in the middle
of some companionable interaction, but as soon as I entered George would fly toward me and Gracie away. George would land on a nearby branch and peer into my face, pull at my clothing, and offer me crow toys. Had I done things by the book I would have ignored him, cleaned up, replaced food and water, and left—but I could no more ignore George than I could fly to the moon. I'd say “Hello, George!” and George would snort and reply “
Ahh-low! Ahh-low
!” I'd mimic him, he'd mimic me back, and we'd carry on like a pair of happy drunks while Gracie watched disgustedly from her high perch.

The bird calls tapered off and I turned the volume back up on the answering machine, although I still never answered the phone myself. One afternoon as I was listening to the messages I heard Jayne's voice.

“I know you never answer your phone anymore,” she said, “but have you ever raised a damned Cooper's hawk? There's a nest of them behind my house and something must have happened to the parents because they've been screaming their heads off all day. I know I should just ignore them…”

I listened in amazement as she finished helplessly.

“…but I can't! They're hungry.”

My surprise turned to recognition. I remembered drawing my own lines in the sand, permanent and unyielding, until unexpected gusts of wind blew them all away.

“You're probably wandering around the woods somewhere, so never mind,” she finished. “Hope you're doing okay. Call me later.”

I released George and Gracie one sunny morning. I had done all I could to get them ready: they recognized local wild berries, they could chase down crickets, and they dug enthusiastically into various dead wildlife I scavenged from other rehabbers. George was fine with me, but along with Gracie he would panic if a strange person entered his flight cage. I had no reason to keep them, save for the quick rush of despair I felt whenever I thought about losing the bird I had sworn not to fall for.

When I released them, Gracie, true to herself, took off like a bullet. George, close behind her, disappeared but eventually returned alone. He spent the day
flying around the house, landing on the roof, the deck, various branches, and occasionally, my head. “Get off! No bird hats!” I shouted, even though rules mean nothing to a crow. From time to time I'd spot Gracie's slim silhouette soaring over the house, once in the company of a crow I thought was Nacho, but she never landed where I could see her. At twilight George settled in the black birch outside the kitchen window, where I kept returning to check on him until darkness hid him from view. The following morning I rose early and walked around the house with a plateful of crow food, peering up into the trees, willing myself not to worry; but when George finally coasted down out of the sky and landed on my shoulder, I was dizzy with relief. He mumbled a few soothing crow phrases, leaned against the side of my head, and fell asleep.

Like an avian anthropologist, George spent the summer flying back and forth among Gracie, the other crows, and his adopted human tribe. Gracie remained a shadowy figure, occasionally spotted grabbing her daily meal from the feeding platform or perched on a far-off limb with George, but she never came near the house. And even though George quickly accepted John, Mac, and Skye, he would have nothing to do with friends or visitors. At the sight of a friend's dog he would frantically circle the house, screaming the crow danger cry, then vanish into the woods; but after a few days of studying our interactions, welcomed Merlin as a valuable playmate. George would sit, hidden and unmoving, in the shadows of the spruce tree and watch as the unsuspecting Merlin meandered across the lawn. Suddenly George would launch himself, roar up behind Merlin, and drag his feet across the top of his head, sending Merlin diving for cover until the poor dog realized that once again he'd been had. Flying low, George would careen around the house with Merlin in hot pursuit, forcing any innocent bystanders to hurl themselves out of the way. Merlin seemed to be no match for the devious George until he discovered George's secret passion: anting.

Once George discovered anting—although, as with the blue jays, I'm not exactly sure how he discovered it—he was hooked. He'd poke around through
the weeds until he found an anthill, then he'd roll on top of it and gyrate until he was covered with racing ants. Once in a while George would have such a good time that he'd lose track of his surroundings, giving Merlin the chance to thunder up like a draft horse and scare the wits out of him. George, aggrieved, would retreat to the spruce until he recovered his aplomb. What goes around comes around, I wanted to tell him. Quid pro crow.

No one could bring out George's exuberant side like Mac, who would race outside, throw himself down on the grass, and wait for George to land beside him. Mac would pick up a twig and brandish it at George; George would open his beak and let out a guttural
caw
, then flop onto his back and bicycle his legs while Mac grabbed his feet, scratched his belly, and tossed him dandelions. Eventually George would jump up, snatch the twig, and fly to the trampoline, where the festivities would resume. While Mac jumped George would hop from pole to pole, commenting loudly, or grab a hanging strap by his feet and swing back and forth upside down.

His relationship with Skye was more complicated. When Skye climbed into the hammock with a book George would settle next to her, drowsy and content, until he decided it was time to get up, stretch, and poke Skye in the ribs or try to rip the book's cover off. But as much as he liked relaxing with her, he like playing practical jokes on her even more. George's gold standard was when Skye and a friend were playing in the empty parrot flight enclosure next to the house. Even though the door was closed it was slightly off-kilter, so in order to lock it from the outside you'd have to push it another inch to a fully closed position, then slide the dead bolt shut. George must have watched me lock the parrots inside dozens of times and seized the opportunity: landing in front of the cage he climbed up the wire front, beating his wings in order to push it the final inch to a fully closed position, then he slid the dead bolt home and successfully locked the girls inside. John and I arrived moments later, drawn by their shouts for help.

“Who locked you in?” I asked, puzzled.

“It was George!” they chorused.

“There's no way he locked you in,” said John with practiced skepticism. “No way.”

“Go ahead, Daddy,” said Skye, filing out with her friend. “He'll do it to you, too.”

John entered the flight and pulled the door shut behind him while we all watched from the deck. Within a minute George had repeated the process and John was shouting for help.

“Don't look at us,” I called to John. “Ask George to let you out.”

The only one unimpressed with George was Mario, who dislikes other birds in general and crows in particular. Mario spent a good part of the summer glaring evilly at me and shouting “War!” at George. As it turned out, he was also plotting.

For a brief period Merlin figured out how to open the screen door to the kitchen. He'd push his nose against the handle, slide it open it just wide enough for his body, and then slink into the house, leaving the open screen as evidence. Had he closed it behind him I would have let him get away with it, instead of eventually removing the handle. But during that small window of time Mario began calling to George in my voice. He'd call “
George! Geoooooooorge
!” enticingly, and a few times I walked into the kitchen from the living room just as George was about to walk in from the deck. I'd say “Get out of here, George, you're not a house crow,” and shut the screen, never suspecting that I was thwarting Mario's plans. But one day I entered the room just in time to see Mario standing on the kitchen table while George walked through the open screen door. As George strode by, Mario pushed a heavy plate off the table, missing George by inches and sending him flapping back out the door. Mario regarded me as I swept the shattered plate into a dustpan.

“War,” he said.

We drove to Randall's Island in Manhattan to see Cirque du Soleil, something we could never have done in summers past. I watched as the dazzlingly costumed performers defied gravity and thought: if they can achieve perfect balance, why can't I?

The following morning I whistled for Merlin, crossed the field, and headed into the woods for a run. I had taken only a few steps when I heard a “whoooshhh” and felt a gust of air over my head. I ducked down, thinking it was the female goshawk, even though I knew she had abandoned her troublesome old nest and moved deeper into the woods. It was George.

“Do you want to come with us, George?” I called, and as I ran down the trail he caught up and flew beside me, and I ran faster and faster until once again I felt as if I were flying. That night I sank into my black sleep for only an instant before the images returned in a tumultuous blaze of form and color.