A Murder Of Crows

von Marcus Krug

 

“Mum, mum, can you come here, quick! I think Tigger did something to a crow in the backyard.” Christopher, my little baby brother cries out, “Tigger was playing with it and now he fled into the house.”

“You and your stupid cat!” I say, “Every normal boy would have wanted a dog and you wished for … a cat!” I chuckle.

“Shut up, Robyn, you … you mean … sister!” he shouts at me.

“Christopher! Robyn! What’s the fuss with Tigger all about?” mum says, coming in from the kitchen.

“Well, look at the trees in the backyard. They are filling up with crows. Dum-dum’s cat has probably killed a crow outside.”

“No, Tigger didn’t kill it. He just played with the bird. It can’t fly, but it isn’t dead! And I’m not a dum-dum, you … skinny … scarecrow!” my baby brother tries to defend himself.

“Mum, that little shit just called me a skinny scarecrow!” I plead for mum’s support.

“Well, Robyn, you may want to contemplate on your recent eating habits, is all I’m saying. If you deny your body any form of fat you probably won’t have to deal with as large hips as your mother’s, but you won’t grow any nice boobs either. Think about that.” mum says. Christopher is rolling around on the couch, holding his belly while laughing out without loud.

“Shut up, you little son of a bitch!” I hiss at him, through my gritted teeth.

“Look at that!” mum says, pointing out of the window, “That’s definitely a big murder of crows. But not as big as the ones I saw when I was a kid like you, Christopher.”

“But mum, Tigger didn’t murder the crow. He only played with it! It’s still alive and hopping around in the grass, see?!”

“That’s just a figure of speech. A group of crows is called a murder. Like a school of fish. But not like in Finding Nemo, understand?” mum says, and Christopher nods vigorously.

“So, now be quiet, children, because the bitch,” mum winks at me, “is going to tell you a story from the crows of her childhood.”

“You remember Walter, grandpa George’s neighbour; the one with the nice garden behind his beautiful house?!” We just nod in silence and mum goes on,

“When I was a kid, Walter threw a rock at a crow. He unfortunately killed the bird. As soon as the other crows got over the initial shock, the outrage began.

“You couldn’t see his grass, roof or trees for all the crows.

“They kept up a week-long vigil on his house and back garden, complete with their unholy cacophony and defecation on any remotely horizontal surface until Walter respectfully buried their fallen comrade.”

“Then a year later at the same day they came back, en force, and spent another week harassing him.

“This went on for years.

“Eventually I met your dad and we moved away.

“But once when we were visiting grandpa, I was drinking coffee with him on the porch behind the house.

“Man, that’s a lot of crows.” I said

“Yeah, every year they come back like a clockwork.” Grandpa said.

“Still?!” I asked.

“Grandpa just nodded, drank his coffee and watched the chaos unfold.

“It’s been more than twenty years. The original crows are long gone since, this is intergenerational hatred that will last until the neighbour moves or dies. Crows are intense!” mum concludes.

“I tell you, Christopher, we have to hand Tigger over to the crows, or they’ll do the same to our house and backyard!” I say, trying to scare him.

“Mum! No, please no! I don’t want to give Tigger to the crows!” my little brother says with tears welling up in his eyes.

In this very moment Tigger walks nonchalantly into the living room, as nothing had just happened, and decides to jump into mum’s lap. Mum starts patting him. And while she is on it, a smirk is flashing over her face.

“Mum, can we keep him, please? We don’t have to give Tigger to the crows?!” my brother is fishing for reassurance.

“No, my darling, that would be pearls before swine!” mum says. And with this she grabs Tigger by his neck, jerks him up while she, herself, gets up on her feet!

“Noooooo-eeeeeehhhhhh!” a terribly screechy and long stretched sound, is being performed by my little baby brother’s yet unbroken vocal cords.

This, miraculously, leaves the glass in the doors and windows unharmed, but motivates Tigger’s black feathered playmate from before to give spreading wings and fly another try. The crow succeeds, takes off, joins the others in the trees and together they fly back to where they came from.

Mum goes over to Christopher who’s sobbing and shaking uncontrollably. She puts Tigger into his little shaky arms and hugs both of them tightly. I join the three of them. And into my brother’s little ear I whisper,

“Who is the scarecrow now?!”

He sniffs back his snot and with big tears still rolling down his rosy cheeks, he gives me a toothy smile.