I caught a baby crow.

Now, I have been a fantasy geek since I read The Hobbit at age six (my mother threw books at me in a desperate attempt to cope with my hyperactivity). And I grew up on wildlife refuges…we always had this or that wild critter rehabbing at our house. A raccoon in the dog house, a grebe in the bathtub, a hawk in the kitchen…I have always, ALWAYS, wanted a pet crow or raven.

The little guy was fully fledged and unhurt; he’d simply worn himself out learning to fly. I held him in my hands and felt the frantic thrumming of his heart, stroked his glossy feathers, looked at the bright intelligence in those eyes. And I wanted that baby crow with every fibre of my being.

His folks were circling overhead, distressed. Crows’ murders are very social, very close-knit groups. They were crying, but afraid to come near me.

His clawed feet clung to my hand. So warm and strong, so clever. His beak was like ebony, and his feathers iridescent. I knew that if I clipped the first four flight feathers, I could restrict his flight until he had bonded to me and would never leave. I live in the woods, and he could have a nice big rookery all to himself.

Four crows circling overhead, and then five. I let my little girl stroke his feathers with one finger, and he was still as only a young wild animal can be, afraid to breathe lest I decide to eat him.

I thought of a perch next to my writing desk, where he could sit and watch me write. And I could put him out in his rookery from time to time, so that he could watch the other crows flying, doing their crow thing, and maybe they would come down and stare at him in his glorified bird cage.

I explained what was in my heart to my little girl, who will one day fly away from me. And put the little crow on a branch, as high as I could reach, so that he would be able to rest and recover out of the reach of predators. He climbed up to a higher branch, quickly, and sat there regarding me with those bright, intelligent eyes.

His murder began to circle lower, crying for their lost child.

I walked home; my steps were as reluctant as my heart, heavy with the knowledge that I could turn back and he would still be there, glossy and bright and beautiful. I could take him home…I could take him to my home, never to return to his own.

I held my little girl’s hand. So soft, so warm, trusting in me with every fibre of her being.

The crow’s mother cried out and I heard him answer.  And I smiled to myself, thinking:

I caught a baby crow.