I am not proud. I confess, we were eating a fast food lunch in our parked car the other day in Poulsbo, when who should pop onto the hood but a one-eyed crow. You should see the other guy, he seemed to say with his proud stance.
“Ewwww! Yuck!” I exclaimed as my hubbie rolled down his window. He held out his hand and fed a piece of french fry directly to the injured crow, now near the windshield. He seemed to be compensating just fine for his deficiency (the bird). He deftly snatched the french fry and did not fall over or bump into anything.
“Hey, I’m trying to eat here!” I cried. It was kind of gross looking, the scarred divot in the left side of his head. Poor thing.
“How would you like to be a one-eyed crow in a world of two-eyed crows?” my spouse asked.
“It would not be my first choice.”
Always a fan of the underdog, my husband feels especially fond of crows. His father rescued several baby crows, among other animals, back in Alaska when my husband was young. One in particular, Tar Baby, made quite an impression. Like a member of the family, Tar Baby would fly over to greet my husband and his brothers as they walked home from elementary school. Eventually strong and fully grown, Tar Baby flew off, but did come back for a few visits before his last “conversation” with my husband’s dad, who knew Tar Baby was saying a final farewell.
Eventually, our little junk food crow got his fill and casually hopped off, looking for his next culinary coup. We were not taking any crows home that day, but our daughter would be taking home a lasting impression of daddy helping an unfortunate crow, like the generation before her.