On Sausage Wars, Rooftop Treachery, And The Correct Way To Request Service

The weather turned.

After months of calm skies and dry mornings, late summer surrendered abruptly to Cornish weather tantrums: rain, wind, everything sideways. Birdie Buffet Mk3 did not survive.

Trinkets gone and decorations vanished, blown clean off the branches. Some of the branches had themselves been blown clean off the tree. The food bowl was overturned and half-buried in the sodden soil. The water dish was missing in action. The once-proud oak slab was now resting at an unusable tilt. No longer an elegant dining table, more a soggy plank auditioning for a very small Viking funeral.

I considered straightening it all up again, but then I remembered where I live. This corner of the UK is basically a weather roulette wheel. One with a lot of “wind and rain” options, and not many jackpots. Autumn and winter here are relentless. And spring. And quite a lot of summer, if we’re being honest.

Birdie Buffet Mk3 is a bust.

But The Wall? The Wall remains. Immovable. Unchangeable. Trusty.

So the buffet returned to its stone roots, and the crows and gulls resumed their Cold War games of wit and theft.

The late August morning began, as many do, with tea in hand and the window ajar. I was pondering what to write when I heard it.

A caw. Long, drawn out. Loud. Oddly pitchy. A pause. Then repeated. Several times.

Curious, I went to the window, sipping my tea, still in leisurely mode. Crow was perched on top of a lamppost directly opposite. He saw me, and the cawing ramped up a notch. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that Crow’s voice was breaking. Does that happen? Apparently, yes it does. The awkward alternation between squeaky and low-pitched calls certainly sounded like a teenage voice breaking. Breakfast was served with a knowing smile. Our little boy was growing up.

More caws. Different cadence. Possibly Crowmum and Crowdad ticking junior off for not sharing. I dutifully trotted outside again, second breakfast in hand, briefly wondering if crows are related to hobbits.

Late afternoon feeding time was met with empty skies and bare rooftops. No crows. No gulls. Nothing winged or watching. I placed the food on The Wall and did my best to hide it, tucked into shadows and leaves, beyond the gulls’ greedy eyeline. Then went back inside to await their arrival. Ten minutes passed. No movement. I returned to the kitchen to make my tea, and there I spotted him, perched on a rooftop across the street, just visible between buildings. Way too far to see the food.

I leaned out of the window and made the familiar tock tock tock noise and he took off immediately, heading for the wall. There’s no way he saw the food! He heard the call. He understood what it meant!

My neighbours, loading prams into the boot of their beige SUV, did not understand, pausing mid-lift to stare at the wild-haired maniac leaning out of the window above.

I offered a quick nod that said yes, I am making clicking noises at the sky like a madwoman, and beat a hasty retreat back inside.

But that moment? Magic.

Tom had not long returned home from work, so I rushed into his room to relay the tale and gush about how smart the young crow is. As excited as a toddler on Christmas morning! I got a blank stare, then a set of raised eyebrows. The sort of look you get if you’ve just told someone you’ve married your toaster and now want to be referred to as Mrs Breville. His silence spoke volumes. It would seem that loud crow-related rants are not part of acceptable human behaviour when the recipient is still in his work boots. I apologised for disturbing him with my bird-based nonsense and slowly backed out, like a servant leaving the king’s chambers.

Crowmum and Crowdad could now be seen on the far rooftops. Crow had clearly not told them that dinner had been served. He was a very hungry lad. Nothing remained. I donned my jacket and packed some treats, and walked the familiar route up towards the cemetery. Crow and family followed. As I started down the cemetery path, they landed on the headstones, watching expectantly from a respectful six or seven feet away. Wary, but closer than they’ve ever been before. I was positively glowing. This meant real trust was building.

My experience of pigeons to date has been that they move en masse between their rooftop roost and their patch of grass, and little further. 20 ft at a push. Once there, they forage intently, unbothered by anything. Feathered stoners. Not motivated by food offerings, other birds, passing humans. Not even dogs for the most part. But on this particular occasion, I had brought leftover sausages on my walk. Chopped into tiny pieces.

The pigeons were already milling, heads down, pecking diligently at the damp earth. The recent rains had clearly tempted the bugs to move out of safety and into the danger zone known as The Surface. The crows and I were further up the path, maybe 30 ft away. I started scattering the sausage bits between some headstones.

Carnage.

The pigeons erupted. They took off as one and swarmed toward us like a plague of feathered locusts.

What the hell???

Can pigeons smell?

Apparently yes. Exceptionally well. In fact, their sense of smell can even help guide them home over long distances. No lie!

And apparently they’d picked up the scent of something far more interesting than worms.

The scent of sizzling pork fat and umami-rich roasted protein triggered a frenzy of flapping wings, jabbing beaks and skidding toes as they jostled for position. It was Hitchcock’s ‘Winter of the Birds’. Just slightly smaller in scale.

The crows held back, annoyed and thoroughly unimpressed.

The crows held back and waited. And on this occasion, lost the meal as a result. Their disappointment was palpable.

I changed my walking route a little so the loop back brought me in from a different direction. Out of sight of the usual aerial surveillance. Rounding the shrubbery and entering the cemetery, I saw them. Two silhouettes on the rooftop. One sharp-beaked and sleek. The other all fluff, squawk, and bad attitude.

Crow and Karen.

Chatting. Like old friends. Like co-conspirators. Like he hadn’t sworn allegiance to my snack-based regime only minutes earlier.

They didn’t see me at first. I stopped in the shadows, stunned. Had I walked in on a clandestine meeting of feathery double agents? Crow looked relaxed. Karen leaned in, wings slightly raised, like she was sharing state secrets.

Then he spotted me.

He froze. One foot mid-step. Coincidence? Or a perfect guilt-pose? Slowly, subtly, he sidled away from her, as if that would somehow erase what I’d just witnessed. I took out my phone.

Click.

Too late, my lad. The betrayal is now evidenced.

But let’s not forget, he may be young but he is a crow. And crows don’t get outwitted. They do the outwitting. I don’t know if this is a long con or a moment of madness, but if it turns out he’s fraternising with the enemy? Cashews may be withheld…