She lands on the end of my fishing pole, making casting impossible. I don’t mind. I’m glad to see her. She has been gone for a few days, and I am always relieved to see her return. Not that I expect her to stay forever. She is, after all, a wild animal, and she needs to be with other crows — at least in theory. So I lean back in the boat and watch her preen her shiny black feathers.

Two years ago, my wife and I fished her, half-drowned, out of a drainage ditch in Florida, wrung her out and gave her a little cat food, which she readily accepted. Soon, the chick was eating everything and seemed perfectly happy with her surrogate parents and her roommate, a lab mix named Alfie. We named her Harriet.

Harriet belongs to the tribe of fish crows who speak in a minor negative key. Their principal call sounds like anh anh. As in “anh anh, I ain’t doing that” or “anh anh, I ain’t what you think.” Crows are versatile, however, and are capable of a variety of vocalizations. They are accomplished mimics, and I believe Harriet can say whatever she wants if so moved. Cocking her head so that one eye focuses on me while the other surveys her surroundings gives me the impression that some complex calculations are taking shape inside her little crow brain. Alfie, on the other hand, I’m pretty sure I can outsmart. 

At mealtime, Alfie sits, staring, drool pouring out of both sides of his jowls, his brown eyes pleading, “Oh pleeeze, can I have just a little of that whatever it is you’re eating? I don’t care, I’ll eat anything, and try my best to actually digest it or throw it up — that’s OK, too — but please let me give it a try.” Harriet doesn’t beg. She would rather steal. And steal she does. Glance away from your plate and she’ll swoop down and take a morsel, then fly up to a bookcase or a high counter. She’s discerning. She’ll examine her prize, maybe cache it for later, but she doesn’t just wolf it down, hoping it doesn’t come back up — like somebody else. 

I’ve never invited Harriet on the boat, but she needs no invitation. She comes and goes as she pleases, and I flatter myself to think she likes my company. I did ask Alfie once, and he was delighted to be included. He bounded enthusiastically about on the boat until he lunged at a Canada Goose and we capsized. While I tried to save my floating gear, he bobbed up a little ways downstream, and I think I heard him say, “I don’t have any idea how we ended up in the water, but this sure is fun.” I didn’t invite him back.

When Harriet first came to us, I thought I should keep her indoors for her protection, so I built her a big cage. It took up half a room and I equipped it with swings and branches and pools and shiny objects and all manner of things a crow might like. She would have none of it. She squawked persistently whenever I put her in her deluxe accommodations, until either I or my wife surrendered and let her have the run of the house. She’d follow us around, poking her beak in whatever it was we were doing. We loved her company, but knew we couldn’t deny her the chance to explore the outdoors. So, one day, we decided to accept whatever happened, and we took her out to the porch and set her down on the railing. She was in no hurry to fly. She sauntered back and forth, examining her new surroundings. Crows don’t actually walk. They strut as if practicing an arrogant little dance step or modeling some outrageous new costume on a runway. Suddenly, she squatted and jumped into the air, flapping steadily until she landed on an oak tree branch.

Alfie catapulted off the porch, ran to the tree, and jumped up so his front paws were on the trunk and he was looking up into the branches. He was either saying, “Come down out of there! You’ll hurt yourself;” or, “How did you do that? Can you teach me?” After that, Harriet accompanied us on whatever outdoor activities we were engaged in, until, one day, she disappeared. We told ourselves it was a good thing, that it was exactly what she should do, and we hated it. But eventually she came back and started to come and go at irregular intervals. The times she was away began stretching out to days.

So now she sits at the end of my fishing pole, looking rather pleased with herself after having been gone for longer than I liked, when a murder of American crows shows up and takes up a raucous cry in the trees. So, this is where you’ve been? I feel like a parent with an unruly teenager. Go tell your friends you have to stay home for a while. She looks at me, calculating, and then at them, and then back at me and says anh anh, and flies off.