Posts Tagged ‘crows’

So far, it is a perfect New Years Eve day. It is snowing, the indoor animals are curled up by the radiators, the outdoor wildlife are burning through food faster than I can put it out, and tomorrow we are driving an hour up the state to eat a slow roasted pork with sauerkraut (for luck) meal. Yum.

The outdoor group will just have to consider themselves lucky that they get such a fabulous buffet of food everyday since we moved here. Seriously, we spend more at the feed store than at the grocery store.  

This is just a Happy New Year everybody – it is the beginning of a whole new administration, out with eight years of an administration that has almost destroyed us, but hey, we’re still standing.  

Cause for much celebration.

Bobby is barking at his brothers outside, who are gliding around in the swirling snow, making a racket over the dog food and peanuts scattered out for them.

Tonight the deer will come for their nightly corn mix, and Tomas and I will celebrate by watching the last episodes of “Dexter”.

What better way to usher in the New Year?

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Bobby has been being quite vocal lately, and a few mornings ago I woke up to find that the house was surrounded by crows in trees, on all sides, hundreds of them.  I peeked out the kitchen window down into the yard and there were about fifty of them eating the bird and squirrel food on the ground.  The minute they sensed movement, they took off.

 So….we thought our wild animal budget would be a little lighter with the raccoons going into semi hibernation, but no – – we have to find cheap dog food and put it somewhere away from seeds and nuts so that everyone can get a bite.  It is practically a full time job – they are eating faster than I can get the food out.

When each feeding spot has been stocked, I sit down to relax, only to have Bobby yelling at ME!  Yes, I forgot to check his food bowl.


Oh the guilt.


I feel waves of half imagined, half real guilt-trips washing over me.

In the fall it was Buddy the raccoon, staring in the kitchen, off the back door balcony tree.  Now it is the crows.  

I have a life, I keep muttering to myself.  I have a life.  


“No, mother, you don’t. You are here to serve all of us.  Please try to “get” that, as you humans are so fond of saying”.

Thank you, Bobby.  It is always good to know ones place in the world.



What's for dinner tonight?

What's for dinner?


We WILL Be Back.......

We WILL Be Back.......



Have a Happy, Healthy and Safe Thanksgiving, everyone.  

The Bird, the Dad, and the Mom are off to get ready to see the relatives and eat ourselves silly.

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Today is daylight savings time, and Bobby is bellowing because it is still hot and sunny at six-twenty p.m.

The nutjob landlady put her For Rent sign on the lawn yesterday, and today two very nice Latino families came to the door and knocked. I invited them in, and Bobby started flapping and jumping.

We all Spanglish the breeze for a bit, as they are fascinated by him. Sadly, they want to see this house from hell, and we must move along, where I warn them to be careful of the rotting floorboards in the hallway, the broken swamp cooler in the kitchen, where hideous muck drops onto one’s head from the roof (mmm – really tasty conditions to make a meal) – and this is the nice section of the house.

I actually had to caution the second family to NOT bring their infant inside, as the guck in the walls, etc, would make a baby sick.

The list of what those poor folks had to see is much to long to go into, however, one fellow from the first family was so glad to have talked to us, the tenants, because, as he said quite plainly,

“The landlords lie.”

Yes, they do, and this particular landlady is borderline delusional. She has neglected this (once upon a time) lovely house for years, and thinks she will simply slap another coat of paint on it and charge, as she puts it, “Market Value.” Seems kind of cruel to treat something one owns so poorly, when one has the means to do otherwise. I believe this is known as Greed, perhaps?

To end this on a bit of a laugh, later in the day a real estate agent put up a big open house sign on the outer corner of the lawn, basically obliterating the For Rent sign, on the same corner was a flyer hung on a pole advertising a garage sale, and kitty -corner to this house was another real estate sign pointing to another house for sale.

People in cars were starting to do donuts in the intersection.

And Bobby bellowed his lungs out at the whole circus, while Tomas and I semi-collapsed on the floor, too tired to laugh, but somehow, sounds resembling laughter were coming out of us, and for a moment, all was well.

It was peaceful to be enjoying the great insane ride of simply being alive.

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As in the last post, I threatened Bobby D the Crow, Bill the Rabbit (many names he has), and Vinnie and Vito the cats that I was going to start cracking down on treats.

They have responded with terrorists attacks.

Bobby is going with violence, snapping at my finger when I was petting his head, then refusing to apologize.

Vinnie and Vito have chosen passive-aggressive behavior, keeping us up all night, timing their antics at the moment when we are drifting back into sleep again.

Bill the Bullet is refusing to eat the reasonable plate, just picks out what he likes, then strikes the “starving and freezing” pose. Working the guilt angle.

So far I am responding with flat indifference, despite the fact that all of their mastermind guns a blazin’ is just about killing me inside.

Right now it is a neck and neck race to see who is going to break this cycle.

Who is your money on, readers?

Bet on me, I’ll throw the fight, I need the money.

Happy New Year!

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Yes, I do, and I am sick of it. I had been saying for the last seven years that I wanted to visit my long-ago mother-in-law, Barbara W., who was not doing well. I kept saying it, and kept not doing it. I guess whatever I was going through was more important than visiting someone who is one of the kindest, gentlest people I know, a person who treated me better than I had ever been treated in my life, and I kept putting it off.

Thursday, I just got sick sick sick of myself and my poor-me bullshit, and my guilt that this houseful of animals and man won’t survive a day without me because I seem to think I am so important! It is the Irish Guilt at play, and although guilt is guilt, every background has a different delivery, I am guessing.

I used to brag that no one could guilt me. Look back to the Instant Karma post for that one – this time the Karma was not so instant, it is making up for lost time like it has a death sentence.

I went to the Motion Picture Country Home, which has expanded greatly since I was there, and refused to give into feeling bad about not loving up Bobby D. for the day. He was in my office today and he is fine.

Barbara is suffering a rare form of Alzheimer’s, but she remembered, due to a little bronze kitty keychain she gave to me 23 years ago. The reason I still have it on my keychain is because I lost the key years ago! Otherwise I would have lost the kitty. I told her she was going to have a roommate soon, and it would be me, do not worry.

She focused, remembered me, and we had a few good laughs. Then she would drift, then come back. We spent about 40 minutes together before she felt she should go back to the bingo game.

I went to my car and cried. I got home and refused to feel guilty over anyone here. Especially Bobby D. the Crow. He is Italian, and his ability to guilt far outweighs the Irish version.

I will be visiting her again, and again, until she is gone.

And no damned Irish Guilt is going to stop me.

Got it, Bobby?

(mean mother mean mother mean mother mean mother mean mother)

I can HEAR you……..

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written by Bobby D.  Article re-printed by permission of the author.


Okay, that last post was the bird’s mother trying not to lose her mind.  She complained quite heavily about the Motion Picture Television Fund taking a day away from us hanging out, but, she could have hung out with me in the early evening, instead of blasting out that angry post.  Try telling her that.

So, the weekend was okay, it was really cold for us Southern California Crows, and the mom spent a lot of time making sure that the rabbit, Wullith, was not freezing, and she made sure I was not, too.  This was very thoughtful of her, but she still spent a lot of time in her office, trying to juggle her idea of priorities.  Poor thing.  She just makes herself crazier every day.  But, she did watch a movie the other night that seemed to vindicate some of her crazy, and it rocketed to her personal top ten.  It had a weird name……

“Rosencrantz and Guildenstein are Dead”.  Something based on “Hamlet.”  Whatever, she woke up in a good mood but had had weird dreams. So did the Dad.

Anyway, back to her Karma – she was in the shower this morning, and had an idea – the mother, like most of you humans, seem to get your great ideas in the shower, but mostly when you are on the toilet.  Good Gods of Flight, if I had a great idea every time I pooped, I’d be a genius.  Well, I am sort of a genius – after all, we are the smartest wild birds out there.  Not to brag, just saying it is not because we poop so much.

She decided to give Mr. Juan Oliva one more call, kind of like “three strikes you’re out” – and after all of her ranting and raving that he was an idiot,  that the lady Jennifer was horrible, on and on, either out loud or in her head.  I can tell when it is in her head because she does not blink and a muscle in her jaw jumps.

Mr. Oliva called back within an hour, and they wound up having a really good talk, she got some answers she needed, it turns out that he is just as confused as she is on this Pension issue, that both he AND Jennifer went to their supervisor, both pretty flummoxed.

He was a great help, and she apologized for being so cranky and sarcastic with him on the first call.  He was very gracious, and heard her point about just needing to hear some information, that being ignored was driving her up a tree – she had no idea that they didn’t know either, and they did not want to call her saying, “This makes no sense.”

I am kind of proud of the mom, because her instant reaction after the good phone call was to delete the angry post.  My best guess is, she is owning up to when she screws up, rather than pretend it doesn’t happen.

I hope her ego doesn’t kick in, because she really does have instant karma, and she will get her ass kicked within 48 hours, trust me.

Bobby D. the Crow

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I could be paying attention to Bobby today, I took him outside a few days ago, and his bad wing bled a little again. I decided to put some Neosporin Triple Antibiotic ointment under his wing and on the crippled blood feathers that keep trying to grow back in, but fall off after they have grown to be about two and a half inches.

He did not seem pleased with this gooey business under his wing, and has not been quite so demanding of my “juh guh boy” scratch the head love love.

He has a new hobby, which is to meticulously tear off the paper glued onto a prescription bottle. Time consuming and challenging, plus, when I hear the plastic bottle fall onto the floor, it does not give me a heart attack like the tossing the rocks phase did. I go out and pick it up for him, he is happy, I am happy, and he seems to slowly be forgiving me for the Neosporin.

I miss him today. We have had an amazing phenomenon here in Los Angeles today – a full day of rain. We have not had a full day of rain in two years, and one thing the San Fernando Valley is famous for is the street flooding that goes on during the “rainy season”. Our last “rainy season” was Mid- November, 2005. For the global warming dissenters, sorry, this is not normal. Even my dear friend R., who had (until recently) lived in the Valley almost her whole adult life, admits it is “a little weird”. She and I would have strident debates about Global Warming, but, true friends can debate and stay friends on almost any issue, if they try hard enough, and the friendship matters enough. At least in my experience.

As usual, I have wandered off of the point. This would be a perfect day to have Bobby in the office, or to bring him into the living room, really give him some good indoor attention, not just a “hey buddy” when I walk into the kitchen.

I am tied to the office because I am waiting for the Motion Picture Television Fund to return my call.

“Why don’t you have a cell phone?” is the most common question, and a totally acceptable one.

Because I despise them, because they are too expensive, because the day I saw a homeless man pantomiming talking into a cell phone, my head swiveled like Linda Blair in “The Exorcist”. I admit, my head does that often, but this was a particularly memorable three-sixty.

The Mom and the Dad are trying to save money. The land-lines, (AT&T, Verizon, etc) are just too expensive, although in our experience, Verizon is a much better company. Unfortunately, in the San Fernando Valley, you get AT&T.

We decided, after too much fruitless dialogue with customer service concerning the phone bill, to request being disconnected and go with Internet Phone service. It does not work very well, and we cannot find a good hand held phone, so we have pulled out, brace yourselves, a telephone with a cord. Granted, it is a long cord, but it plugs into Tomas’s studio, and can reach into my office next door, to halfway down the hallway.

AT&T sent us a disconnect notice, then kept charging us for two months. Another dispute underway. This is so tiresome.

I, however, am waiting for a call from either the Motion Picture Pension Plan or the Motion Picture Television Fund. (MPHW – Motion Picture Health and Welfare; MPTF, Motion Picture Television Fund.).

I have over $21,000 in my Pension, and I am not allowed to withdraw it because I am “Vested” in my union, Local 700. Editors Guild. If you are even remotely interested in reading more on these special folks, go to my blog What Happened?!. It’s not pretty.

I need this money now, and they have been playing hot potato with me for the last week, the woman I spoke to at MPTF, Jennifer George, told me I was ineligible for financial aid because I had not made enough money.

Digest that for a moment.

I started to lose my temper on the phone, that great combination of crying and scathing rage, and she seemed to get a little bit rattled. She said she would look further into the matter, get my records from the Pension folks, and in the meantime, gave me her direct phone number. She asked if I was suicidal. She seemed concerned. And I bought it. I am a fool.

That was Nov. 8th. I waited and heard nothing, so I left Jennifer George a polite message on November 27th, as I did not want to interrupt her Thanksgiving holiday with my problems. My call was returned by Juan Oliva, who was now my social worker.

How did this happen? I am trying to withdraw money that belongs to me, and now I have a social worker. A social worker who keeps repeating “I’m sorry” and have I tried any other institutions?

I get sarcastic, saying, “No, stupid me, I went to my Union Pension Plan, Editors Guild, what should I do, go to the Teamsters?”

“You could,” he says, clearly bored.

I start to lose it again, accusing him of being condescending and placating, and does he have a list of what or who I call next?

No, he does not. I tell him he is in the wrong line of work, and he quietly hangs up on me.

These folks jobs were created by US, the workers that belong to the unions. And this is the quality of treatment.

I forced myself to calm down, and left a message for Jennifer George, telling her that being pawned off onto an inept social worker was unacceptable.

Mr. Oliva returns the call the next day, seemingly quite contrite. Unfortunately, I was out, and it was much too late to call him back.

So I returned his call today, left a message, and waited. I left another message four hours later, just to be more clear and leave my phone number in case I had forgotten to in my agitation.

So, what does this have to do with Bobby D, my Crow? Due to the Internet Phone funky service, I do not want to miss the call, and have to stay in my office.

I remember stories of teenage girls sitting breathlessly by the phone, waiting for the boy to call. I was not one of those teenagers, it happened briefly when I was in my thirties, but good old answering machines were reliable, and I did not mind missing the call, I could call back.

Not this time. I miss this call, I will be chained to the office again tomorrow.

It is now five thirty. Juan Oliva’s message states that he leaves the office at four-thirty.

I am holding onto my temper by sheer will, and as each minute ticks by, it feels as if cocoa butter is being rubbed onto my palms, and my grip on civility is starting to slide.

I could not have Bobby in the office, because if the call came in I would have to focus 100% on what was being said, and am sorry to report that I could not risk a Bobby distraction.

I am so happy that he is enjoying playing with the bottles, because I am kind of hogtied here.

This is no way to spend a day. This is no way to be treated. I am not asking for a handout, I am asking for money that belongs to me, and have wound up sitting by the phone, waiting for an uncaring social worker to return my call.

Well, for once in my life, I am not going to cry and scream and threaten to kill someone or try to kill myself – it is very strange, but I feel bone cold and icy, and am going to go head to head with the most impossible institution I have ever dealt with in my life.

If there is one thing I learned from my father, it is not to let that temper out – you will just get written off as a nutcase, and then the Pandora’s Box will have been flung open, destroying everything in it’s path, including the host.

I had a perfect day to spend quality time with Bobby, and this was how things went down.

What is that old, possibly Mafia, saying?

Go after me, fine. Fuck with my family……..I suggest you start getting your long term papers organized.

I think I made that last part up.

The funniest thing to me in this “gotta use the magnifying glass to find the humor” situation is – Bobby was mellow, doing his thing. I wanted to play with him. I wanted to work on the prologue of the novel, and get it up as a teaser on the web page, and I wanted him in the room with me so we could take breaks and play.

Well! We are not losing a good day to MPTF and this nonsense again, now are we?

I hope I do not wind up on the local news. The bird does not want the Dad to have the burden of being a single parent. Bobby informed me that they probably won’t allow him to visit me in jail.

Dear Whomever, help me not lose my temper.

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A few days ago I took Bobby outside in the backyard, he has been with us for six years, and about eight months ago I was having great sadness about how unnatural his life was, and maybe it was time to give some fresh air a try.

I had been holding off on this, as a crow may have a broken wing, but they have legs like pistons, and Bobby is fast on his feet. But I took my courage in hand, as the “backyard” is a cement slab with a falling down fence and a neglected mixture of ivy, bougainvilla, two types of pine trees, both weird….However, upon studying it with eyes that were not irritated with the landlady’s neglect of the place, and our fruitless attempts to make it into something pretty, I felt fairly certain that Bobby would not be able to navigate too far, fast or not.

It all worked out, and I try to get him outside at least once a week, as he seems to enjoy it. I stay with him, and usually one of the cats is out, as is the rabbit, everyone just kicking around.

The yard is right off of Tomas’s studio, and the sliding glass door is open, as we don’t want to miss the elusive breeze that might pop by.

Tomas was inside reading the news, I was sitting outside watching Bobby poke around in the ivy, Vinnie the cat was relaxing on a chair, Wullith the Rabbit was hanging in the cool dirt under the ficus I planted. Don’t harsh my mellow, man.

“Oh, so they caught the priest that was stalking Conan O’Brien” Tomas remarks calmly.

“What?” I yelp, causing an immediate chain reaction. Vinnie pops his head up, Wullith sits up, ears back.

Bobby goes apeshit and starts running down the side of the house. I get up and start after him, he is hopping away from me at a very brisk pace, flapping his wing and a half, and making his signature quacking noise that indicates total upset with the whole situation.

I am torn between chasing Bobby and my virgin ears hearing more about a priest stalking Conan O’ Brian????

Now, I like Conan, but Tomas and I are die hard Craig Ferguson fans. I could understand the reaction if it were Craig, but the twisted part of my brain finds it horribly funny that a good Irish boy like Conan has a priest stalking him. I must know more!

But, the maternal instinct kicks in, winning by a nose hair over the sick celebrity addiction, and I have to get to Bobby before he dives into the ivy, and I have to battle whatever is living in that overgrown mess.

We avoid that scene, as he goes roaring back out into the cement circle, (sorry, yard), deciding that jumping up into the bamboo is the best choice.

Now, crows do not roost in bamboo. Especially a thin, half dead stalk bamboo plant such as ours. But he has done it, and is flapping wildly, getting stuck, this is not good.

I try talking to him calmly, unfortunately, this news about Conan O Brien has freaked him out so intensely, that my soothing voice telling him that Conan is unhurt, everything is okay, is falling on deaf ears. I have no alternative but to grab him, which I hate to do. The best way to get him back into the house is to get him on my arm, and we both waltz inside with our dignity intact.

Not this time. He is in trouble, and I have to get him out. I grab, he struggles, and dear lord no, there is blood. He managed to get his bad wing up around a dead stalk of bamboo, and poke himself just hard enough to draw blood.

I am a bad mom. My child is bleeding. I can only imagine what parents of human children go through when they cut and scrape themselves.

We make it into the house, into the bathroom, where I wet a paper towel and gently push it under his wing, putting easy pressure for a few seconds. It comes out soaked with blood.

I know enough to be able to stay calm, because bird blood coagulates very fast, and this is not a gushing wound, he simply got a little scrape. He is going to be fine.

I keep asking him why is he so distressed? Is because he does not feel like a good Catholic bird, and if a priest could stalk a celebrity, what terrible terror awaits a Catholic Crow, clearly living in sin?

I remind him that he takes communion every day, even though it is not a blessed wafer, it is a Ruffles potato chip. I console him that although we have not had a priest bless the bag of chips, that he is receiving God’s love through the mom, and not to worry, he is not in trouble with the Church.

He seems to settle down, and we went back to his condo, where more consoling goes on.

It must be hard when one does their best within their chosen faith, only to hear that some of their spiritual leaders are total nutcases.

It is certainly a surprise to find out that one’s child is deeply faithful.

I guess I am going to have to find Bobby a cheap Merlot to offer him with his Ruffle, as I have clearly been remiss in taking the important steps in guiding my child in his spiritual quest.

C’mon, spiritual leaders! If you choose that calling, don’t do these things that let down your flock. Especially a crow. They are extremely sensitive.

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I know I have never finished the first post on the story of how Tomas and I became the parents of a crow, it may just have to go into the memoir section of my web page. Bobby has lived with us for six years, and every day he is up to something new to drive me insane with love or a desire to strangle him. And Tomas, being “The Dad”, never wanted children because deep down, he always knew music would come first. We both knew we would not be good parents to a human, albeit for different reasons.

HOWEVER, as I write this, Bobby is cawing like a madman, I think he is trying to find his girlfriend, and Tomas is wrestling with a difficult cue. But he loves the Bob, and luckily he can tune him out, and Bobby has no interest in marching into the studio and demanding attention.

With all of the disagreements we have, The Bob and I are both in agreement on one issue:

We despise Ann Coulter.

This does not make us unique, but I have an extra added bonus. Ann Coulter looks like my sister Shannon Mahan, and uses her blond leggy sex appeal in exactly the same way as Shannon, whom I am also less than fond of. But I have to kind of feel sorry for my sister, because all of my personal feelings about her aside, she is in with the majority of Americans who abhor this administration. AND SHE LOOKS LIKE ANN COULTER!!!
That is just the Universe being mean to my sister, but the bad devil side of me gets a bit of a kick out of it sometimes. Poor Shannon. How do you reconcile finding something funny, but feeling bad about it? Chocolate?

However, this is not about Shannon, again, our relationship will be covered in memoirs, down the line. I have some great memories of her, and often wonder what happened to her to cause her to be a certain way later in life. A certain way that, from my perspective, was unkind. I have my own responsibilities in our break from each other, which I chose to do, and I will be owning up to them. I will not do a hatchet job on my sister, as much as my anger at her wants me to.

This post is about Bobby the Crow and how politically proactive he is. I was changing his papers the other day, and happened upon a picture of dear old Annie Coltie, she was speaking somewhere, the L.A. times reported, “to wild applause”. Gee, do you think it was her legs and hair, or her putrid spew that was causing such enthusiasm? Go fellas!
Everyone knows that most men (and this is not a bash, even they admit it) hear very little of what women say when they are flashing you with whatever “come-hither” ammo they have at their disposal, and Lord knows, Annie the Republican Stick Chick has LOTS to work with. Very pretty, very smart, very hateful, and very wily.
She is not special, either, and she has every right to laugh at us. But someday, poor Ann Coulter will have cellulite, saggy breasts, crows feet, (sorry Bobby, it’s just an expression, your feet are cute) all of the swell stuff that happens when we get OLD!
Ann will have enough money to plastic surgery away much of this, but then she will look weird, as everybody does when they try too hard to stay young.

I have nothing against a little here, a little there, to make one’s self feel better, but when a person relies on her beauty to get the attention he or she needs, they usually go too far, and just look odd, sometimes kind of scary.

I have the sense that Ann Coulter is smart enough to know that if she wants to keep this nonsense up, she has to stay beautiful, and she will most likely go overboard with the plastic surgery. Then what she says will be in the spotlight, not her body and her hair. She will fade into the sunset, and be forgotten before the finale, where she gets to talk to her particular brand of Jesus.

I probably won’t live long enough to see it, but……let the silly twit enjoy her time. In the big picture, she is as meaningless as Paris Hilton.

SO, speaking of silly twits, here is how Bobby and I are proactive in our beliefs. I put the picture in the paper of Ann Coulter down right where he poops the most, and enjoy watching her image slowly fade away under a pile of bird shit.

Totally petty, totally silly, but dammit, I make myself laugh.
And to quote Craig Ferguson, “If it makes me laugh, that’s half the battle.”

Bobby D., Political Crow.

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Poor Bobby – we live in the San Fernando Valley in Southern California, and although crows do not have hyper olfactory senses, they know when there is danger and it is time to leave. Usually this is due to their ultra intense sight, and the fact that they travel in a group, called a Murder, not a flock.

Shows how scared people are of them – well, Alfred Hitchcock did not help matters now, did he?

All of the animals have been jumpy, but Bobby is going a bit out of his mind. It is hard to deal with the fact that he cannot fly, he senses danger and cannot get away from it the way he was built to protect himself. This time he is not acting like a fun loving drunk three year old, he is freaking out. His adrenaline must be racing, because he does not want attention, I have tried. He wants to rip up paper and pound and tear on his condo, and i have run out of ideas.

I sat on the desk and told him we were all on edge, told him I understood what it felt like to be trapped, promised him I would keep him safe, just talked and talked to him. That worked, as long as I did not leave the room.

I had to go and work with Tomas on music issues, then had to drive east towards the 5 freeway to buy pet food, as we were completely out because we were waiting on a check, which arrived today. Driving east is driving towards the fire areas, and the sky is that horrible sickly shade of yellow, with grey ash haze at eye level.

When I returned, Bobby had gotten down and torn up all of his fresh papers, thrown sticks and rocks out of the empty planter he uses to maneuver his way down, and had gone over to the vitamins on the counter, zero-ing in on the Jarrow brand acidophilus capsules. He was not having fun, he destroyed them.
The only upside is he has a lot of good bacteria in his system today. Hopefully it will counteract the time he managed to open Tomas’s prescription for antibiotics and stab one of the capsules to death. I admonished him that Tomas was the one in the house with a toothache, and the pills did nothing for a bothersome beak. He ignored me.

I tried to take him in my room, he did not want to go. He made sounds that were human in their sadness and fear, while pacing around, first snapping at my hand, then putting his head down apologetically. He was acting like I do when I am PMS’ing. If a crow could burst into tears, he would have.

If I had not had to go get them something to eat, I would have stayed with him and talked until my voice gave out.

I cleaned everything up, then sat and told him that I was terribly sad also, that I was in emotional turmoil concerning my few blood relatives, but we had to do our best and hang tough, trust each other, and try not to let fear and anger cause us to destroy things.

I hope I can take my own good advice.

It is dark now, and Bobby has settled down, he is dozing in his corner. I envy him that darkness brings him peace.

To all of the fire victims out there –

A crow and his mom are, in their own way, praying for you all.

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