Scaring Crows

Two big ugly black and white pied crows have taken up evening residence in the garden. They have clocked, because they are clever birds, that that’s when the dogs are fed. Hang around long enough, hovering hopefully, and the dogs, having picked all the meat out of their supper, leave the rice behind. They wander off then, and flop into the shade and the crows take over, pecking delightedly whilst perched cheekily on the edges of the dogbowls. I have urged my fat labrador Kanga, ‘Sa, sa!!’ but she looks at me disdainfully with liquid brown eyes as if to say, ‘Look honey, I am not going to deign to chasing crows’.

I describe my annoyance to the girls as we walk our splendid new verdant estate. And several hours later they constructed (under the nightwatchman’s nonplussed gaze) a solution to my avian pests.

He is called Senor Margherita. I don’t know why he’s wearing a beret. He should be Monsieur Escargot. Particularly given that he has a Gauloise hanging from his bottom lip. No matter his origin; he is very handsome (though not, obviously, in rugged Marlboro Man way). Albeit astonishingly short. The sign the girls have erected beside him reads WARNING: SMOKING STUNTS YOUR GROWTH. I feel they ought to exhibit some restraint regards their anti-smoking exercises, given what their father does for a living. Given that its the noxious weed that not only puts food on our table but that of the dogs as well. And the crows come to think of it.

They could also have warned: SMOKING GIVES YOU WRINKLES (look at his) or SMOKING CAUSES SUCH SERIOUS LACK OF OXYGEN THAT IT MAKES YOU BLUE IN THE FACE.

But they could also have written – and you must forgive me, it’s more than my (my husband’s actually) job’s worth not to offer some defence of the industry – SEE THE WORLD: SMOKE.

Come dawn though, and Senor M had clearly decided to kick the habit. Or perhaps somebody had hammered it out of him overnight? Orlanda maybe?(Orlando until we instructed the vet to pick his pockets only to discover, once under sedation that he was a she without pockets to pick and thus newly christened Orlanda) who perhaps offered to sit beside him in the morning sun  but only if he put his fag out in the dust first.

Which he obligingly did.

Frankly I couldn’t care whether he lights up or not. No long as he sees the wretched crows off.

Advertisement