A Murder of Crows

Photo by Pelly Benassi on Unsplash

Stone the crows.
A murder of crows.
Murder, a murder of crows.
I used to like crows. They are intelligent; they like shiny objects. They hang out in a murder. What’s not to like?
They are also arseholes, the biggest arseholes of the bird kingdom. Damn dinosaurs.
It all started a couple of years ago when we moved into a rental apartment. Our place, for my son and me. Our own place. It was also directly across from the shopping centre, which was a bonus.
Or so I thought.
Where there are big shopping centres, there are lots of people. There are also lots of people where there are big blocks of units.
Where there are many people, there is usually a lot of rubbish. People are pigs, dumping their half-eaten crap in shopping trolleys. While right next to a rubbish bin.
Where people are doing this, along with all the shiny stuff they get from the shopping centre. You guessed it. There are crows—a whole murder of them.
Every.
Damn.
Day.
With that annoying call they make, especially the one that drags on.
Caaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww....www.....wwwww......wwwwww.. ww.
What’s worse is this so-called birdcall is the right pitch for my autistic son to start reacting to it. He doesn’t like it. So he makes this noise that I have no idea how to replicate while blocking his ears.
The noise he makes is at the right pitch to vibrate my teeth and bones and has the metal in my body scraping against the bone. Okay, maybe not that bad, but it immediately sets me on edge.
These crows start around 7 am during winter. 5 am during summer. All day, all the way through, until sunset.
You’d think I’d get respite while he was at kindergarten and daycare. But unfortunately, I was hyper-aware of every sound they’d make. One little shit, in particular, would sit on the lamppost directly outside our patio.
“Caaaww.” The crow goes.
"Aaagh." Screams Keegan.
“Get the fuck out of here, you stupid fucking annoying shit!” rants Dad, bolting out onto the balcony.
Hush... go the neighbours. Peering out from behind the curtains.
Act normal, James; look around to see who’s making all that racket—not fooling them.
“I’m not crazy; I’ve been tested!!”
Two years. Two long years. We finally moved, not because I wanted to. It was either CaravanLife or being homeless under a bridge somewhere. After two years of never being late for rent, knowing full well that I couldn’t work due to my injuries from my accident, I didn’t get much income support and was the full-time carer for my autistic son. They wouldn’t even give me extra time. So on the 4th Dec 2021, after they’d asked me if I wanted to extend my lease the day before, I said yes, of course. The landlord said “You got 30 days to move out.” By text message.
Merry fucking Christmas. They were pretty happy to make us homeless as long as they could cash in on the 35% rise in the rental market in the past month. I even offered to pay extra, as well as pay six months in advance. I knew this was the reason, as it was the only time they turned around and got defensive.
“We operate under the legislation….” blah blah blah.
So I managed to get a caravan, and a friend of a friend let us park up on their property in the outer suburbs of Perth.
On our first day here, I got to relax, sort of. I had the essentials set up, so I was resting.
I thought to myself. I don’t hear any crows.
It’s peaceful, just normal bush noises. Oh.. this might be okay.
5 am.
CAAAAWWW
CAAWW
CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWW
AAAAARRGGHHH
FUCK!! Fuck off, crows!!!
“Nevermore”, quoth the raven.

Originally published on Zirkels, where you can find more hilarious accounts of my life.