Does a magpie count if it comes cawing at my chamber door?
I intend to catch everyone up on bookfair and booklove hijinks of the past year, but for the moment I want to share my delight in inter-species communication.
About two weeks ago or so, while I was waiting out front in my messy rental garden (grass, grass and grass with a shrub) I ran across a magpie who hopped around, cawed loudly and gave me suspicious glances. I shuffled around slowly, as people have been swooped around our house before, and spoke to try and identify myself as someone who was calm and oh so obviously not an egg or small bird eater.
'Hello, good afternoon. Sir? Madame?'
I was cawed at.
'Yes, lovely weather.' I was at that point a bit caught up in the vain and childish idea that I was participating in some wondrous rapport. 'But I hope that the summer isn't too long or hot this year.'
The magpie hopped around a bit, and cawed again.
'Well, you say that, but I've never heard a polite word out of that puppy's mouth,' I was referring of course to the young puppy owned by my next door neighbors, the one who barks at the drop of a hat and pissed everywhere, 'and I've known him longer than you have, I suspect.'
The magpie cawed. My friend arrived. The moment was over.
Then, two days ago now, I heard a quiet tapping towards my door. Not human footsteps. Then I heard some familiar cawing. A pause. More cawing. I got up and opened the door. Before me, my good friend Magpie was standing there and regarding the screen security door between us.
It cawed.
I opened the security door, and with a sharp flick of its' head it walked out and down the steps to the front footpath, stopping every few seconds to make sure I was paying attention and keeping up. It led me around the corner and towards one of the garden beds. In which was a larger, fatter, bigger and grumpier looking magpie. I shall call him Mr. Magpie.
Magpie cawed. Mr. Magpie cawed. Since it seemed appropriate, I curtsied in my pyjamas and said hello.
They cawed on concert. I commented on the rain we'd had over the last few weeks. They regarded me, then cawed. I said to Mr. Magpie that I was very pleased to have made his acquaintance, curtsied again, and stood still.
They cawed, and then ignored me completely and headed off elsewhere in the garden. Bemused, and slightly dazed since I'd only been out of bed for a few minutes, I made myself a cup of tea.
I'm delighted that not only have these magpies decided upon the door as the best means of soliciting human company, but that in a twee and very British fable sort of way Magpie has decided I'm all right enough to expand my social circle. Or perhaps they're planning a takeover of the human pests, and they're just identifying the weak and spotty ones for training procedures. In fact, that idea makes me feel even happier. This will now be my almost favourite story about Magpies, second only to the story in which my ferocious cat got the shit kicked out of her by a one-legged half-blind old-man Magpie.
About two weeks ago or so, while I was waiting out front in my messy rental garden (grass, grass and grass with a shrub) I ran across a magpie who hopped around, cawed loudly and gave me suspicious glances. I shuffled around slowly, as people have been swooped around our house before, and spoke to try and identify myself as someone who was calm and oh so obviously not an egg or small bird eater.
'Hello, good afternoon. Sir? Madame?'
I was cawed at.
'Yes, lovely weather.' I was at that point a bit caught up in the vain and childish idea that I was participating in some wondrous rapport. 'But I hope that the summer isn't too long or hot this year.'
The magpie hopped around a bit, and cawed again.
'Well, you say that, but I've never heard a polite word out of that puppy's mouth,' I was referring of course to the young puppy owned by my next door neighbors, the one who barks at the drop of a hat and pissed everywhere, 'and I've known him longer than you have, I suspect.'
The magpie cawed. My friend arrived. The moment was over.
Then, two days ago now, I heard a quiet tapping towards my door. Not human footsteps. Then I heard some familiar cawing. A pause. More cawing. I got up and opened the door. Before me, my good friend Magpie was standing there and regarding the screen security door between us.
It cawed.
I opened the security door, and with a sharp flick of its' head it walked out and down the steps to the front footpath, stopping every few seconds to make sure I was paying attention and keeping up. It led me around the corner and towards one of the garden beds. In which was a larger, fatter, bigger and grumpier looking magpie. I shall call him Mr. Magpie.
Magpie cawed. Mr. Magpie cawed. Since it seemed appropriate, I curtsied in my pyjamas and said hello.
They cawed on concert. I commented on the rain we'd had over the last few weeks. They regarded me, then cawed. I said to Mr. Magpie that I was very pleased to have made his acquaintance, curtsied again, and stood still.
They cawed, and then ignored me completely and headed off elsewhere in the garden. Bemused, and slightly dazed since I'd only been out of bed for a few minutes, I made myself a cup of tea.
I'm delighted that not only have these magpies decided upon the door as the best means of soliciting human company, but that in a twee and very British fable sort of way Magpie has decided I'm all right enough to expand my social circle. Or perhaps they're planning a takeover of the human pests, and they're just identifying the weak and spotty ones for training procedures. In fact, that idea makes me feel even happier. This will now be my almost favourite story about Magpies, second only to the story in which my ferocious cat got the shit kicked out of her by a one-legged half-blind old-man Magpie.