We have acquired a baby crow.
We found it on our morning amble around the Library Gardens, sitting anxiously under the trees whilst various grown up crows circled noisily overhead.
Usually I have got a firm policy of non-intervention in the ways of nature, especially when it comes to baby birds, most of which can manage perfectly well without interference.
This one, however, was not at all well equipped to leave home.
It has got a few underdeveloped feathers on its wings and tail, a little fluff, and the rest of it is unattractively bald, with bulging blue eyes and an enormous beak.
It is hideous.
At first we walked past it and carried on with our morning amblings, but a tragic little pile of feathers further along the path reminded us that the Library Gardens are the happy hunting grounds of Windermere’s numerous and voracious cats, and so on the way back we stopped by the little bird and picked it up.
We had a bit of a look to see if there was a nest to which we could return it, but of course crows build their nests right at the tops of trees, and there was nothing even looking remotely likely.
We took it home and put it in a shoe box on the shed roof so that the crows could see where it was, and chucked some bread out in the garden to attract their attention.
They dive-bombed the garden as usual, and wolfed the bread, but ignored the chick, and eventually we brought it inside.
It was cold, on account of not having any feathers, and when Mark had buzzed off to the farm I warmed it up in my hands and made it a nest in its box and offered it some bread and butter, which it ignored.
It sat there for most of the morning, until in the afternoon I was summoned down from cleaning out the children’s bathrooms by an imperious cawing, and found it sitting perilously on the edge of the box, until it saw me coming, when it fell off.
I pegged a teatowel to the back of the rocking chair so that it could hold on to something, and perched it on there, which it seemed to like very much, and sat there, swaying uncertainly, surveying its surroundings with interest.
After various trials we discovered that the contents of the fruit bowl were an acceptable substitute for whatever mother crows feed to their babies, and it ate half a pear and some chopped grapes and also a dead fly with relish, in between nodding off to sleep and waking up occasionally to caw loudly, presumably in the hope that its mother might hear it and come flapping joyfully in to reclaim it.
It seems to have some understanding of crow-language, replying to the bird noises in the garden occasionally, which is good, if it doesn’t die it might be able to rejoin its crow-tribe.
I suspect it has suffered some sort of misfortune brought about by the recent torrential rain and flash flooding over the last few days, we have had some truly astonishing downpours. If I am brutally honest I am not sure how good its chances of survival might be. They are better than they were, given the predatory nature of the local cats, and also the dreadful rain, which Mark said was enough to batter a baby bird to death: but baby birds are best looked after by larger birds, who don’t need to dash out to drive taxis and mend camper vans in between feeding their babies.
I shall let you know how we get on.
