Crow tales
We never meant to host crows.
That began in 1998 - yes, that long ago - when we brought home to Nova Scotia from Washington State - yes, that far away - a 55-kg Newfoundland dog named Rosie.
Rosie, to cool herself on hot Pacific days, was digging up our daughter's flower beds. Also, over-protective as that sea-dog breed can be, she was keeping the children indoors.
Along with over-sized Rosie came her oversized food bowl. And when, seven years later, she got old and sick and had to be put down, that bowl, set bottom up here on a thick maple junk, became a mini-oasis - central food dome with freshwater moat - for our abundant bird life.
Rosie would have liked that.
Like I say, among the eventual clientele at Rosie's Restaurant were crows. First came one, then a pair and, last spring, a threesome. You put out food, and in minutes they'd show up. Put out nothing and they'd perch on the bowl's rim cursing, as if they owned the place. Later a colony of nasty earwigs took over the dark under-dome - but I digress.
Was the crow trio a family? Likely, since one was smaller, with a higher-pitched call. One day this runt started squawking non-stop, facing the other two, pink tongue wagging, clearly demanding to be fed. The parents, to their credit, walked away. After that, crowwatching became for us a COVID game.
Then one day, changing the birds' water, I found several thin brown shells floating there. Crows, like raccoons, will wash their food. But what food was this? Turned out the shells, about three cm long, were wing covers off those night-flying beetles we call June bugs (Maine folk call 'em May bugs - go figure). Drawn to house lights, they buzz and bump against our screen doors for weeks in early summer.
Actually, they'd just emerged from two to three years of living underground as fat white grubs munching the roots of grass and farmers' crops. Now, as lovesick adults, they're keen to mate, lay eggs and repeat the cycle - if some crow doesn't get them first.
“Hmmm,”i thought, “Likely they caused our lawn's bald spots... so the crows are doing us a favour? Great!” But the good feeling didn't last. Next week, in the water moat, I found a baby bird's skull, yellow beak and all, most likely a robin's. “Well,” I thought, upset, “They say God feeds the fowls of the air ... but Lord, this is too much!”
Then I thought (or God replied): “Wait a minute - you welcomed their help with the June bugs; shouldn't you accept this too? After all, such large native birds can't survive on seasonal bugs alone. Snitching unguarded or fallen nestlings is something crows do this time of year. Think of it as helping Mother Nature make smarter songbirds. Besides, crows clean up millions of roadkills for free... .”
God (or Reason, or both) won. Gradually, life returned to normal - or what now passes for normal. Dunkings of this or that foodstuff continued, now mostly greens. Slowly, my faith in Nature rekindled.
Until, that is, a tiny mammal's meatless hind leg showed up. It resembled a baby hare's except for the hoof! So, a fawn's? Or a fetus's? But how? Coyotes once dragged a local farmer's half-born calf from the cow's womb at night. But no crow, nor flock of crows, could manage that.
Neither could they rip open a dead deer. American sociobiologist Bernd Heinrich proved that by testing ravens, a larger bird, with sheep carcases. Even they needed the help of a predator - eagle, fox, lynx, coyote.
“So,” I concluded with relief, “the leg's from either a still-born fawn or a coyote deer-kill.”
However, again our guests had crossed a red line. Downright gross! But you know, so are humans sometimes. (Is that why their behaviour bothers us so?) Thinking it through, admiring crows again as Nature's super scavengers, admiring their smarts, I forgave them. Still, admiration isn't love, the way one loves a wee chickadee, a cute saw-whet owl, a baby robin.
Days later I found in Rosie's dish a clump of dismantled earwigs, a hundred or more. As if to say, “We crows did this for you, Saunders. Get with it!