On Bird Bosses, Trust And Ancient Lore

Autumn is here. It arrived early and wasn’t the kind that slides in gently with golden leaves and poetic melancholy. No, this one kicked the door in like an unwelcome ex and started flinging buckets of rain around before I’d even had a chance to store away the flip-flops.

The temperatures dropped faster than my bank balance on the 1st of the month. No warning. No easing in. Just sudden, sharp cold. Central heating systems were being nervously tested across the county. Chimneys puffed woodsmoke into grey skies. The beaches emptied and the previously bustling streets quieted. Even the gulls seemed subdued and slightly less obnoxious.

Morning walks were damp and drizzly. Evening walks were moonless and moody. The beach looked less like a romantic film set and more like somewhere to bury a body. Not exactly conducive to spiritual rejuvenation. Which is fine, really. Enforced post-work captivity lends itself to other things. Writing. Drawing. Sorting my entire life into increasingly anxious piles. Procrastinating.

One such procrastinatory project began with a simple cupboard clear-out. A noble and sensible endeavour. But like most noble and sensible endeavours, it quickly devolved into something ridiculous. Behind an old pasta jar and a rogue can of beans I found an unopened packet of muesli. Not even the good kind. Just sad, oat-heavy, enthusiasm-free muesli. The sort that tries to tell you it’s “high in fibre” while tasting like a graveyard for raisins. I almost threw it out. But then a thought hit me: could I repurpose this into something for the crows? I’d been making basic wild bird treats for a while now, but what if I jazzed them up a little? A quick search later and yes, muesli could be baked into a flapjack-type thing for birds. Especially when blended with peanut butter, oats, coconut oil, and the finest chopped walnuts Lidl has to offer.

But then I had a brilliantly terrible idea.

Gecko food.

Three unopened packets of high-protein insect powder, inherited from Splat, beloved and recently departed crested gecko, almighty biter of fleshy fingers. May he rest in peace, preferably in a terrarium far from human hands.

Packed with crushed bugs, calcium, and nostalgia… I added it to the mix. The result was a bowl of something that smelled like very old, very funky porridge. But once baked? They came out like soft, rustic little oaty buns. Warm, nutty, weirdly inviting. I very nearly tried one.

I did not.

The crows, however, loved them. So much so that they started squabbling over the best bits. Squabbling. Over my homemade snack bars. That’s never happened before. I started tweaking the recipe. Adding a bit more protein. A few extra walnuts. Considering festive versions with dried cranberries or gold-painted toppers. Then I caught myself Googling “bird-safe edible glitter.”

It’s a slippery slope.

Long story short, I now have an entire digital folder labelled CrowBarz™ Development Recipes, and I’m one late-night impulse away from designing packaging. Am I planning to sell them? No. Will I pretend this is all perfectly normal? Absolutely.

………

The Crow Restaurant’s cemetery branch is now fully operational. Mobile, discreet, and increasingly well-guarded. Karen and her family have been a persistent problem. Loud, entitled, and very much gulls. Food barely hits the moss before they are dive-bombing it like feathered wedding guests at the evening buffet. But this may be about to change.

The crows, in their wisdom, appear to have recruited muscle. It began innocently. CrowBarz were distributed in the usual patch, the usual way. Caws echoed into the air. Then came the rattle - sharp, staccato, unmistakable.

The Magpie.

He landed like a glossy little gangster. White vest, black jacket, tail twitching and eyes gleaming. Walking with a swagger that suggested he’d rattled the underworld and came back whistling. The gulls had appeared almost immediately, flying in tight formation like a low-budget military display team as soon as they’d spotted the delivery van. (Me. With a backpack.)

The magpie turned to face them.

Ratatatatatatatat.

One warning shot.

The gulls flinched mid-air. You could see the fear ripple through the flock as they made a wobbly detour and landed awkwardly on a set of flat-topped headstones nearby. Watching. Huffing. Screeching.

But not approaching.

They too knew the legend of the rattle.

In the ancient bird lore, passed from elders to chicks, there are stories about the ones who rattle. Who don’t care about size or numbers. Who fight dirty. And win. It doesn’t matter that he’s half their size. It doesn’t matter that he’s alone. What matters is that look in his eye. The look that says I once pecked a fox and lived to tell the tale.

The crows have made an alliance. The magpie gets his cut. And the gulls? They sit on the outskirts now, confused and demoralised.

It’s the feathered mafia. And business is booming.

Now the rooftop rendezvous becomes clear!

Karen, you were played, and you’ve given the crows the advantage.

……………….

By September, the changing season means my bird clan have more reason than ever to squirrel food away for later.

I didn’t realise what was happening until it was too late. At first, the feeding routine felt manageable. A treat here, a snack there. Just enough to build trust and earn some quiet companionship.

But now? Now they summon me constantly. One caw. Two clicks. A rattle from the trees. I’m on my feet like a zombie waitress, grabbing snacks and trudging out like someone caught in a looped dream. They’ve even brought in more magpies. More. Magpies.

I’m starting to suspect The Codex of the Crows includes a full chapter titled “How to Train Your Human”, and I am unwittingly listed in the footnotes as a success story.

The Codex of the Crows? Yes. I’m sure they have their own stories, myths and lessons. I call it The Codex Corvidae. Or The Crowdex for short. It has a subsection on which humans annoyed them once. Avoid that list at all costs. The revenge is generational!

Keeping the crows well fed is also getting expensive. What started as cheap suet balls and peanuts has turned into handcrafted bars with more nutritional value than my own dinners. And I can’t go back. Not now they’ve tasted the good stuff. They barely glance at standard fat balls anymore. The looks I get when I try, the sheer disdain, could curdle milk.

“Where’s the walnut? Where’s the protein powder? Is that… just oats?”

No one tells you that being adopted by crows comes with such high customer expectations. I haven’t told Tom. He already thinks I’m about to move into the garden and start wearing feathers. If he finds out I’ve spent a week’s grocery budget on corvid hors d’oeuvres, he may apply to have me sectioned.

Despite all the sideways looks from the neighbours, the loudly rolled eyeballs from my family, the rain, the expense, the racket, the logistical chaos….

I love it.

I love their little personalities. Their hierarchy. Their sharpness. Their rituals. The way they wait just long enough to be sure I’ve gone, but not a second more.

And when the magpie lands, sending the gulls scattering with a single rattle? Glorious!

He knows he’s a legend. And he’s earned every bite.