Midnight Mutterings | Of crows and cat: A bit more

||| MIDNIGHT MUTTERINGS by JACKIE BATES |||

Sybil-the-Cat and I used to go for walks on Obstruction Pass Road and on the beach. It was her idea. She was an ordinary cat in the house, but on our walks, she was more dog than cat as she trotted along with me, sometimes beside me, sometimes behind, and occasionally in front of me. I was content to follow along at her pace when she was in front, but my walking behind her seemed to enrage her even though she was the one who chose how we moved along together.

If I got too close to her heels, she would wheel around, hiss and rise on her hind legs to remind me of her dominance in our relationship. Sybil-the-Cat was a feline of many personalities, thus her name, and this rage at something she had chosen herself was one of her least attractive. However, I have long understood that Cats train their staff, and as Chief of Staff in Sybil-the-Cat’s administration, I must tolerate her moods if wanted to keep my job.

The local Crows, however, were of another mind. When Sybil-the-Cat and I were out walking, they showed their displeasure and territoriality openly. They shouted and mocked us, and if they outnumbered us they might dive bomb us and send Sybil-the–Cat ducking for cover. Sometimes she tried to hide around my legs, nearly tripping me, and sometimes she headed for the nearest bush.

Sybil-the-Cat was quiet in the house, but not so much outside on our walks. And when the Crows seemingly weren’t around in sufficient numbers, she chanted along in time with our steps: ‘Meow, meow.’ she said, ‘Meow, meow.’ It was lovely, really, unless I got too close to her heels.

I have use of a garden near my house, and sometimes Sybil-the-Cat went with me to work there. I pulled weeds and she pursued the small snakes that frequented the space, eating bugs and slugs I hoped. I have always liked snakes and at first I was worried that Sybil-the-Cat would harm, perhaps kill and eat them, but I soon learned that the snakes could hide under the burlap coffee sacks that I used for mulch. Sacks were perfect protection for the snakes, and all Sybil-the-Cat could do was pounce harmlessly while the snakes underneath laughed at her efforts at trying the prove she was the Mighty Hunter of Garden World. The garden, like the bay beside it, is just a big restaurant, with diners and dinners competing for survival.

A few years ago I was in the garden alone, as Sybil-the-Cat had elected to stay in the house, sleeping in her sunny spot on the back of the couch. I was sitting on a block of wood, happily evicting micro weeds from around the baby broccoli, when I heard the familiar ‘Meow, meow, Meow, meow.’
I knew Sybil-the-Cat was closed inside the house, so I looked around for another cat, though ours is not a cat-rich neighborhood. I saw nothing, but the ‘Meow, meow,’ persisted, and seemed to be coming from above my head. There is a big fir snag beside my borrowed garden, so I looked up to see if there was a cat in the tree.

There was not, but there was a single crow on a low branch. I could see it’s beak moving in time with a perfectly articulated ‘Meow, meow,’ that sounded exactly like Sybil-the-Cat. Crow knew I was the cat person, even without the Cat and Crow was mocking me, I assume for my poor choice in companions.

Today, I was in the garden, now permanently without Sybil-the-Cat who died of Mast Cell Carcinoma a couple of years ago. And the Crow on the snag today was likely not the same as the one who mocked me years before, but there is good evidence that Crows communicate with each other and hold long grudges against people for sins the Crows have not personally witnessed. I so wanted to hear a ‘Meow, meow.’ from this Crow, but it was not to be. In fact it only happened that once, when Sybil-the-Cat was in the house, sleeping on the back of the couch and I was in the garden with the one Crow who chose to speak to me in Cat.