Today we have the kind of weather for which Wellington boots were invented:
it’s cold, it’s wet, it makes you wonder whether having a dog is such a good
idea after all. Hamish is of a different mind.
“Weather? What weather; it’s a frisbee day!”
As you know he’s a dog of very few words but great enthusiasm. His days are
divided into ball days and frisbee days. When school is in session, there’s
not enough room in the narrow passage where he exercises for safe throwing of a
frisbee. Frisbee days therefore are holidays and weekends. No matter the
weather, frisbee days are good days.
There’s snow in our forecast. We’ll see what he and the chickens think about
that.
While Hamish was running around I was thinking about a murder. Not the one I
told you about,--the mysterious case of the rat in the night,--but rather a
murder of crows. Normally on our walks I’m greeted by pairs of crows, each
laying claim to territory.
“This is ours.”
“Yes, I know. You say that every day.”
“Just want to be clear.”
“Absolutely. Wouldn’t want the squirrel mob muscling in.”
“They taste good, squirrels.”
“I disagree.”
Amazing how much you can get said while walking at nine miles an hour. That,
according to the radar thingy they’ve parked on our street this week, is the
speed at which Hamish and I approach. Makes one wonder about calibration.
The murder I’m thinking about began to appear early this week or late last.
It’s a small murder, maybe forty or fifty crows at most, traveling together in
the daytime. I think they’re a teenage gang, not yet ready to pair off.
I can’t get the chickens to confirm this; they generally avoid the subject of
crows. I asked why. If you can imagine chickens talking out of the corner of
their mouths, that’s an approximation of what you get.
“Schtum.”
“Nothing comes of nothing.”
“Loose lips sink ships.” Pecorino looked puzzled. “I’ve no idea what that
means."
I thought I might wind them up with the French Resistance song, “Amis
entends-tu le vol noir des corbeaux sur nos plaines?”
(https://lyricstranslate.com/en/le-chant-des-partisans-partisans-song.html ;
<https://lyricstranslate.com/en/le-chant-des-partisans-partisans-song.html>)
Mimo: If Brexit means brexit, schtum means schtum.
I kept singing, “Ici, nous, vois-tu, nous on marche et nous on tue,
nous on crève...
Oui, on crève..”
Pecorino, “I don’t think you appreciate the seriousness of the risk.”
“What,” I asked, “crows are going to launch missiles or something? Gods are
higher up the pecking order than mere crows.”
You know that head movement people do when they want you to step across to
somewhere words won’t be heard? Chickens are better at it than humans. We had
the following whispered exchange underneath the eaves.
“Hubris,” Appenzeller muttered. “Hubris.”
Mimo, “You know what a collection of crows is called?”
“A murder.”
“Ha,” said Pecorino. “How wrong can you be!”
“Well what do you call a collection of crows?”
Mimo, “The C.I.A.”
“And that stands for?”
Appenzeller, “Corvus Imperial Airforce.”
Pecorino, “Forty five species…all over the world…even the poles.”
Mimo, “And all of them communicating with one another, peering into your lives,
sharing intelligence every evening when they roost.”
“They seem quite sociable. Ready to say hello.”
Mimo, “You can never tell. Some of them are quite nice, others…”
Appenzeller, “World wide network. Rooks, ravens, crows…”
Mimo, “Hence the schtum.”
“These are troubled times,” was the best I could manage.
“Winter of our discontent,” said Mimo.
“Glorious summer sun is coming,” I proposed. “It’s in the other half of the
world at the moment. Southern hemisphere.”
Appenzeller, “Where fire lays waste to all.”
“You seem remarkably well-informed for birds that don’t speak to crows.”
Mimo, “The resistance has its own networks.”
“The resistance?”
They puffed up proudly.
“Crikey,” was all I could manage. “I had no idea.”
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
