There’s a lot of great things about living in Washington that I will never quite get over. For one, the water is actually blue here. If that sentence made you scoff, then you didn’t grow up next to a river called Big Muddy, and I love that for you. Every summer I go to Indianapolis on a business trip, and every time I get back and drive over the Sound, or the Columbia, or some random river or oxbow lake, I tear up a little bit because it’s so pretty.
For two, the number of crows — which I affectionately call “The Murder Rate” — is unreal. Those lil guys hang out everywhere. And like every good millennial, I aspire to a certain level of witchiness, and honestly, what could be better than befriending the local murder?
My office — this is going to sound unrelated, but it’s not, roll with it — is in one of those wedge-shaped rooms on the top floor of a house with one and half floors, and the window overlooks the porch roof. If I were younger, dumber, or had better health insurance, I could see myself spreading a blanket on the roof and hanging out there more; it’s got a slight slope, but nothing life threatening, even for my 30+ year old knees and budding back problems.
While I was sitting here, typing away at my lil werewolf stories, I noticed that there were a couple of crows — only attempted murder 😥 — who would hang out on the gutter, and I decided that this was my chance, and after copious internet research, I bought some bulk peanuts in their shells, uncooked, and every day I put a handful on the roof, on a wire cooling rack so they don’t roll straight into the gutter.
They were disappearing at a moderate rate, so I was hopeful that success was imminent, but the crafty creatures waited until I was not in my office to consume my tribute, and I wanted to make sure it was the crows before I decided what my next steps should be.
Alas, ’twasn’t the crows.
‘Twas the mountain jays.
If you’re not familiar, mountain jays are like blue jays that wear executioner hoods over their sick mohawks. Naturally, I love them.
Now, they are corvids, so this is not a failure, but they don’t really flock like crows do, so I shall have to scale my witchy aspirations appropriately. Jays are the sort of birds that hang out in pairs and divebomb anyone they think is an asshole, or anyone who gets too close to their nest, and they will take on anyone, of any size, with no regard for their personal safety, which I think is aspirational, personally.
I’m sure there’s room for some sort of urban witch with an unconventional pet flock, and perhaps, one day, that’ll be me. Stay tuned.
Recent Writing
“This will be war.”
Lucas sucked on his teeth and gave a disappointed shake of his head. “That’s a real shame; we’re so much better at war than you are.”
Next time I’ll talk about my tenuous relationship with audiobooks.
Do good, friends.
Then They Kissed 