A corvid day

Crows are such remarkable folk! Their cousins, the ravens have more literary éclat – celebrated in myth and legend, but crows are just as wonderful. My favorite raven is Grip, a major character in Barnaby Rudge – one of my favorite Dickens novels and one that unfortunately no one reads. Dennis, Rebecca and I visited the Dickens House in London, and there was Grip himself, stuffed. I was thrilled. (No one else seemed that astonished.) He had been a beloved pet of the Dickens children and was immortalized by the taxidermist as well as by Dickens. Grip was further, and probably more immortally immortalized as the most famous raven of all. Poe, who had done a review of Barnaby Rudge, no doubt took note of Grip “tapping at the door.” My personal acquaintance with ravens is limited to the remains of Grip and to sightings high overhead on trips to the mountains. But crows are quite another thing. My neighborhood is a favorite hangout of crows, and I have come to know some of them well. When Becca was younger, she found a baby crow who had fallen from its nest, and didn’t seem to be able to get back in. We took it home and thence to a bird sanctuary, but its parents were resentful and quite unmindful of our good intentions. Whenever we left the house, they would scold us furiously, often following us for several blocks. They seemed to really know and loathe us. Since then, I have read that crows actually recognize and remember individuals, but I had long known that this is true. Moreover, they tell their friends and relations who the bad people are. So if you offend one crow, you have probably made many enemies. Recently, they have been angry at Margaret and me when we go on our walkies. Perhaps Margaret insulted one of them without my noticing. I certainly have been showing them proper respect lately. I even took their portraits as they screeched at me.