A Murder of Crows

I tried my best to rise above it all.  After all, a grown man should not be bothered by the opinions of others.  Especially if the opinion was that of a group of lowly birds.  Common crows at that.  Every man has a limit and those feathered beasts brought the war on.  I was merely a victim.  As much of a victim as Mr. Jingles, the poor long haired tabby down the street.  The same crows tormented him as soon as he dared show one whisker outside of his home.  But I am getting ahead of myself.

It started innocently enough, or so I thought.  A group of crows nested in the large fir in the front yard of my residence. They would rise up cawing and swooping about when I entered or exited my home.  I assumed they had young ones and were merely being protective.  I couldn't help noticing it was only my movements that caught the crows' attention.  Mr. Jenkins from across the hall never caused them to move a feather, and even the shrieking offspring of Sally downstairs only caused an occasional head to turn.  Yet when I appeared, they would immediately take flight and soar about, shrieking and cackling in their insane, common tone.

The harsh cries became aerial attacks. The crows plunged through the sky, whirling above my head, calling out in triumph when I ducked or flinched.  Who would not, if some dark, beady eyed beast dived down and swooped mere inches above their head?  They were crueler to poor Mr. Jingles, often swiping at him and on several occasions, removing small tufts of his long, orange fur.  They never took such liberties with me, perhaps because I have very little hair left.  They had a far more humiliating and filthy attack planned for me.

On a spring day I emerged from my home.  The crows rose up as a group and stormed the skies above me.  They circled and cried out, drawing the attention of a few neighbors gathered close by.  The crows dived down and released a barrage of gooey, disgusting excrement on the back of my newly dry cleaned jacket.  The neighbors thought this was the funniest thing they had ever seen.  I retreated to my door, but not without hearing for the first time that the crows were actually heckling me!  Their cries were not the common "caw caw" they are credited for!  They were calling out clearly and most triumphantly, "Ha! Ha! Ha!"  The vicious beasts were laughing at me, enjoying what they saw as their first major victory. It would be a long and drawn out war.

The sides were decidedly uneven in our battles.  They greatly outnumbered me.  The key group, or 'murder' as I soon found out a number of crows are called, was around four crows. Sometimes the number grew to ten or more.  After the coat incident, I kept a detailed log of their insults and attacks on me.  I noted the culprits involved as well.  I could not tell them apart all the time, but their were a few differences. The ringleader was the largest and his second in command had a peculiar tilt to his head.  I did not dignify them with names, but gave them numbers.  C1 for the leader and C2 on up for the rest.

I had no allies, except for Mr. Jingles. He could not be counted on at all times.  He lost much of his bluster when his owner had him castrated. She insisted on forcing the poor cat to wear a light blue collar with large bells attached.  She wished to thwart his success at hunting and killing birds. The loud jingling which announced his every move made his hunt more difficult.  I empathized with Mr. Jingles being so hampered. On a few occasions I managed to twist off the bells.  Mr.Jingles became a more decided comrade after the crows announced his humiliating operation to one and all. They followed him down the street with ribald cries of "BALLS!  BALLS!"  It was a cruel act, to mock the poor beast for what had been taken from him.  Indeed Mr. Jingles felt the cut deeply and often took refuge on my small porch. 

One overweight, jingling cat did not help much when dealing with the crows.  They cried out derogatory jeers whenever I walked down my street.  They heckled me mercilessly.  If  I failed to wear a cap, they delighted in screaming out "BALD BALD BALD!" at the top of their lungs.  They dive bombed me when my arms were full.  They loved it best when they startled me into dropping my packages.  I cannot begin to think of how many dozens of eggs were destroyed by their behavior.  They pestered me continually with crude calls and comments. I had no ammunition to fight back.  Occasionally, pushed to the brink, I would hurl back insults and threats. This had no effect on them.  They merely flew from tree to house to tree, delighted they had gotten a response.

They escalated to more physical assaults. They swooped down and allowed their vile talons to graze my cap.  They bombarded me with the foulest of their arsenal.  What could a man do against such behavior?  I attempted to fight back.  On several occasions I threw rocks, and once a can at them.  But, my aim is poor and the crows were agile. They easily dodged my humble missiles.

Then came the ugly assault that caused me to trip and spoil a new pair of trousers.  I reached the point of no return. I was nursing my swollen and scraped knee, injured in the fall and watching the crows from my small porch. I had purchased a pair of binoculars to track their activities.  A flurry of flight and the familiar cries of "BALLS!  BALLS!" announced the arrival of Mr. Jingles. He hastily trotted across the yard and joined me.  I had a small can of tuna ready for him.  It was our ritual that he join me for an evening meal and discussion of the continued war.  I put down the binoculars, hurriedly recorded the crows' movements in my log and turned my attention to Mr. Jingles.

"This has gone on long enough, my friend," I announced solemnly.  He gazed up from his tuna, licking his lips for a moment before returning his attention to the can.  I knew this was an invitation to continue.  Mr. Jingles was not much of a tactician, but was a solid ally and would follow my lead.

"I have a plan, Mr. Jingles."  I leaned down and whispered to him.  "Do you know Bobby Gallagher from down the street?"  Mr. Jingles looked up quickly, green eyes wide with alarm.  I knew the Gallagher boy had a reputation for causing mischief and had once ignited a poor stray with lighter fluid.  I despised the boy, but he was a means to an end.

"Do not worry, he is not part of the alliance."  I gave Mr. Jingles a pat and he relaxed with my words.  "The Gallagher boy owns, or I should say owned, a BB gun.  It was taken from him by his mother after he shot a boy in the park.  Now, I heard of this act and approached her and purchased the BB gun for thirty dollars."  I smiled proudly and lowered my voice confidentially.  "I told her it was for my nephew, though I have none.  I do not even have siblings.  She does not need to know this."

"So now we have a weapon, Mr. Jingles. I plan on ending these attacks once and for all!  I will lure our enemy in and destroy them!"  Mr. Jingles watched me and uttered the smallest of mews.  I knew what this meant and did not take offense at being questioned.  Of course Mr. Jingles would want to know the details.

"I do not think it will be easy and I do not expect the crows to trust me.  However, that fool Mr. Breems across the street insists on feeding the birds, including the vile crows, despite my entreaties to him.  He refuses to acknowledge that he is just encouraging their behavior and allowing their numbers to increase!"  I paused to catch my breath and regain my composure. The conversations with Mr. Breems had grown increasingly heated and had escalated quickly. I am ashamed to say, I lost my temper and pushed the old man backwards. The police were called by watching neighbors.  They forced an apology from me and I was no longer allowed on that side of the street.  The fiendish birds had observed it all and for days after their cries had been "JAIL JAIL JAIL!" whenever they saw me.

"Mr. Breems left for Florida last week and now there is no supply of food," I whispered to Mr. Jingles.  His ears twitched and he watched me intently, perhaps seeing in what direction this is going.  "I will lay out food and wait, hiding in that tree in the back.  The crows will not suspect a trap.  They are far too arrogant." I leaned back in my seat, my eyes gazing at the tree which would be my post.  "They will never see what is coming."

The first two days had no success except to annoy my landlady. She repeatedly stormed out to demand I remove myself from her tree.  I informed her that the lease allowed me access to the backyard and she retreated, muttering to herself.  Mr. Jingles visited each day to show his support, sniffing the bread I had laid out as bait and grooming himself in a patch of sunlight at the base of the tree.

The third day would be it, I felt it in my bones.  I spread out bread and broken bits of cheese. I hoped the added treat would lure my enemy in.  A small flock of sparrows descended and began to gobble up the supply.  I thought of shooing them off, but decided that they would serve as reassurance to the crows.  I settled in my precarious perch, the BB gun resting across my leg and waited.

Sure enough, first one crow landed, chasing off the other birds and stalking impudently across the dead grass.  Then another arrived, then a third.  They cawed raucously, sneering at the quality of the meal before settling in to eat.  I raised up the gun and took aim, squinting down the somewhat rusted barrel of the BB gun. I drew a breath as C1 was in my sight.  I smiled to myself, waited a moment to enjoy the sense of victory and squeezed the trigger. 

There was a small pop, a flutter of wings and the birds all took flight.  Furiously I shot again and again, aiming wildly as they swerved and dove about the yard.  They cried out in derision at my poor marksmanship. I heard angry and confused voices from the yard next door.  My landlady emerged again and ran across the yard, wielding a broom that she proceeded to swing up at me. She slapped at my legs and ordered me down.  My perch was shaky and after one particularly well aimed swing of the broom, I slipped, clutching wildly at the branches around me to keep from falling.  The gun swung sideways and there was another pop.  She screamed loudly and began hopping about, clutching at her calf.  She hobbled back to the house, cursing me and threatening all manners of punishment.  Mr. Jingles had deserted me, racing across the yard and through a gap in the fence at the first shot.  I heard sirens wailing down the street and clung to my place.  It was all over.  The crows lined up on the rooftop.  They were strangely silent as the officers first try to coax, then threaten me to get me down.  I refused to give up easily. It was only after they drenched me with a garden hose that I came down. 

Now I am in a courthouse. The lawyer assigned to me keeps pinching my arm to remind me of my promise not to speak.  I showed him my log book and recounted all the insults and attacks that I had suffered.  I even told him about Mr. Jingles, but he refused to allow me to plead self defense.  Instead I am being sent to a hospital for observation. 

It seems all my neighbors had been in collusion with the crows.  They had provided statements of alarming behavior on my part.  They claimed I had walked the streets screaming and cursing at nothing. I had repeatedly broken out windows to homes. There was the alleged attack on Mr. Breems.  The windows were broken, but not on purpose.  It was poor aim on my part when I had attempted to retaliate against the crows.  Unfortunately the consequences of my poor aim were even worse on the final day.  The pellets I had shot had not only wounded my landlady, but broken four windows next door.  And as my mother had always predicted if I were to ever possess a BB gun, someone indeed had lost an eye.  My neighbor ran to look out the window after the first shot and was hit in the face with the next pellet.

I could not focus on the droning of the lawyers and the judge. My gaze wandered to a window nearby.  I gasped and shook and my hands gripped the table with all my might.  My lawyer gave me a sharp pinch, but I barely could feel it.  For outside the window, staring straight in at me, one with its head cocked in an unusual fashion, were three crows.