Fagin and Gladstone

Fagin, and Friend

Vikkie Kenward, in West Sussex, England, lives with a crow that had tumbled to ground before it could fly. She fed it, and now she had a messy boarder who craps in her hair. Ms. Kenward named her crow, Fagin, after the scoundrel in Oliver Twist.

It was love at first sight.

I am intrigued. When I was young and green, Dad came home from the woods around our house in Western Washington State with a young crow which he said had flopped to the ground, apparently trying his wings which still worked only on downhill flights. I do not know how it happened, but our crow was named, Gladstone.

William Ewart Glandsone

William Ewart Gladstone was, four times, the Prime Minister of England in the 1800s. I have no idea what he has to do with a crow in Washington State. I understand why Ms. Kenward named a crow, Fagin. Crows are very intelligent scoundrels.

Gladstone sat on Dad's head, pecking at the button at the top of his fisherman's cap, occasionally missing the button. He crept up to the cats drinking milk from the separator, and drilled their tails. They swatted at him or her--how can you tell?--but had learned not to attack him. It probably would have been a bad idea, anyway. A flock of crows is called, A Murder of Crows, for good reason.

Gladstone--the crow, not the Prime Minister--stole nuts and washers from Dad's machinery overhauls. It didn't really matter: Dad never put all the parts back into place, anyway. Gladstone discovered that it was fun to hang upside down from the clothes drying on the lines Mom used, leaving interesting little dirty footprints.

Ms. Kenward says her crow is trying to speak English. I tried to learn Crow. I can still caw raucously like a crow, although there is not much use for it here in Tucson, and occasionally I make another sound, rather like an "oo-wow-oo", which seemed to be an affectionate signal, but that little talent of mine has never been of any satisfying use to me.

Gladstone stayed around for a year or so, gradually becoming curious about the crows flying about overhead. Then, one day, he joined them. At first, only for a short time, I could caw at passing crows, and Gladstone would drop down and sit on my arm or head. Then he would leave again, sometimes answering, but passing by, into memory.

I guess we all do that.

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