I’m back in Seattle today. My husband is still in Chicago until Tuesday. Seattle is just starting its shift from regular gloom to summer glow, so I was greeted with one of those rare and glorious sunny days.

And now, a note for posterity: The Crow.

I haven’t been writing about the crow, but I’ve been living with it.

A little over a month ago, I got the urge to tame a crow. Yes, I know. Odd impulse. I think I’d read something about how intelligent crows are—that they can learn to recognize people, and even bring you shiny things if you feed them.

One afternoon, I spotted a crow sitting near our balcony. I put out half a dozen dog kibbles. After I stepped away, it flew over and gobbled them up. Encouraged, over the next few days, I repeated this routine. Each time I saw a crow (I like to think it was the same one), I’d set out a few kibbles and walk away. 

After about a week, it started to recognize me. If I was walking around the neighborhood, it would follow me home, clearly anticipating its treat.

So far, so good.

Then it started sitting, waiting for me, on the power line above where my husband parks his vehicle.

My husband was unimpressed with the amount of crow shit on his windshield. Then another crow joined in. More noise. More shit. 

I’ve stopped feeding the crow. I now chase it away when I see it near the house. The dream of bonding with urban wildlife has been replaced by a more practical ambition: keeping my husband's SUV clean.