Now that spring will soon be upon us, flowers bursting into bloom and baby birds chirping in their nests, it brings to mind an experience I had last summer. When one considers all the dire warnings about West Nile Disease being found in dead robins, doves, and crows, at the time, I wish I’d been firmer in my resolve to listen to that inner voice of mine. But noooo. When I saw a gangly baby bird bobbing helplessly about in the raw afternoon heat in my front yard, I only semi-listened to the voice in my head saying “leave it to mother nature.” Yeah, I listened all the way to the market, while I silently prayed that the big little fellow would be gone when I returned.
He was still there 20 minutes later (and it felt twenty degrees hotter). I drove right past him and steeled my resolve to ignore his dilemma from the coolness of my air-conditioned home. This determination lasted about five minutes after the groceries were put away. Visions of long ago sparrow rescues flew through my head as I got a cup and a straw. I reasoned that surely it wouldn’t upset the balance of nature if I gave the displaced fledgling a few sips of cool water.
“This is one big and scrawny baby bird,” I couldn’t help but think, as he wobbled on his really long legs and opened his really big baby beak to eagerly swallow a few droplets. His determination to drink swept my resolve away as swiftly as the water that slid down his gullet: I decided to move him over to a shady hedge. I knew better than to leave a human scent on my new little friend. I went inside to grab a towel; not paying the slightest attention to the three or four really HUGE black birds sitting on my neighbor’s lawn.
Nor did I notice immediately upon my return that the little crowd across the street had now grown—not into a gaggle—but into what is clinically termed a murder of crows: A murder of Alfred Hitchcock proportions and intent. Suddenly, like a pandemic they rose. Cawing raucously and flapping huge wings— they attacked. If it weren’t for the towel I tossed over my head as I sprinted toward my house, I shudder to think what the outcome might have been. I could feel their wings beating on me. One of them almost followed me right through the front door. If he had, one or the other of us, I can guarantee, would surely have ended up dead.
Sadly, it was the baby crow that was dead the following morning. Yet, for two days those adult crows stalked me. They perched on my porch lampposts. They made feints at me when I went out for the morning newspaper. They even went after me on my back patio. From what I understand through a friend whose brother is an ornithologist, they were mad because I had; a) interfered with a potential communal cannibalistic dinner, or b) the chick’s parents were a part of the murder.
The moral of this tale? Leave those chicks alone. Not only could they be carrying a nasty little virus, you might also end up losing an eye. Sometimes, trying to be nice can just be murder.
