Peanuts In My Pocket

In a post last Saturday, I wrote about coming down with COVID-19. My world came to a screeching halt for a few days while I recovered. I took care of my sick wife as she took care of me. We did little else. The days passed in a blur.

By Saturday, I started feeling like myself again and managed to do a few maintenance chores. While dumping trash, I heard a crow cawing from the roof of the house next door. Moments later, a second one called from the utility pole in my yard.

They had seen me refill the songbird feeders and were letting me know it was their turn. Feeding the crows involves dropping a dozen unsalted peanuts on the street near my driveway. There’s a pair that hangs around, whom I’ve named Roscoe and Reacher. I’ve been feeding them for years.

I used to walk my dog, Rufio, in the mornings with a pocket full of peanuts to toss along the way. Rufio passed in early April. Since then, I’ve stopped the peanut walks and shifted to a daily peanut drop. It changed my relationship with the crows, but not by much. It’s less fun, but I figured I had trained them to expect food during our walks, so I wanted to keep it going in some form. I’ve been feeding this pair, and their chicks, for the last six years.

On Saturday, I grabbed a ten-pound bag of peanuts and stepped outside, but hesitated. About twenty birds were already on the ground between me and the curb, scattering as I approached. I dropped a few handfuls of peanuts, and soon more crows arrived, then more, and more, and more. Before I went back inside, I counted 75 crows. They devoured the peanuts in under a minute, then called for more. I fed them again, and again, eventually going through eight pounds of peanuts.

As they ate, a few crows left behind presents. One pulled a feather from its wing and dropped it by my door. Another offered a pigeon feather. Two more left snail shells, and one dropped a piece of blue foil. I don’t usually see gifts, and when I do, it’s typically snail shells, so this was unusual.

Neighbors and passing drivers stopped to watch. It felt like a scene from Hitchcock’s The Birds. Crows lined the street, rooftops, trees, parked cars, and overhead wires. They called out and jumped around, each eager to grab a peanut or two. A few even danced and hopped just yards from my door. It was a magical moment.

As I stepped outside for a final peanut drop, I saw Roscoe and Reacher perched on my wife’s car. They jumped down and approached as I walked over. I hand-fed them. We don’t actually touch; I drop peanuts at my feet, and they take them. This time, they lingered, as if to say, “We thought you had died…”