“Nevermore,” quoth not the raven.

Onomatopoeias are a mixed-dish.  Meant to convey not only a meaning, but a sound, the onomatopoeias of the English language feature a slightly better than average success rate in conveying sound.  Take, for instance, the term used for the sound of a crow.  “Caw,” really just doesn’t cut it.  Caw is just too simplistic for the obnoxious guttural complaints that emanate so early in the morning from these fat, imposing and graceless creatures. 

 

Can ya tell that I’m not a big fan of crows?  

 

I typically enjoy waking up to the symphony of birds singing.  Usually, the natural scan of sparrows and finches and other little “bleep-bleeps” creates a peaceful landscape – the kind that invites images of a morning paper, steaming hot tea, and some biscuits.  Not so much with crows.  Reminiscent of the screech of car-brakes right before that tumultuous crunch of a multi-car pileup on the I-5, the squeal of the crows first thing in the morning reminds me only of the successful use of crows as a metaphor for Satan’s son in the Omen.  Loud, obnoxious, graceless, they are proud of their own noise.  Their shrieking, which is at best somewhere between a “Caw” and the “EEEaaaaww” of a donkey, carries as much melody as a college fraternity sponsoring a belching competition. 

 

Looking out the bedroom window at the commotion of noise, I spotted several fat black birds on low hanging branches in the pecan tree.  Below them, poised on the fountain, Karma sat staring up at them – obviously the cause of the turmoil.  The birds were not one bit happy – not one bit at all.  Karma, who is far too big to ever exist as a successful hunter, had less of a look of “I will KILL you” on his face as he did the typical, “Huh?  Wha?  Huh?  Stretch… Yaaaaawn!” that we all know and love. 

 

All through breakfast, Satan’s birds kept squawking, obviously annoyed that any creature but their own loud selves would be in their turf.  (Wait a minute – THEIR turf?  Do THEY have to pay taxes?  Freeloaders!)  As I toured through the garden, taking care of the plants, they tuned up the volume, further annoyed that a two-legged creature intruded.  It wasn’t enough to have a furry orange tub o’ lard in the back yard, but now one of them humans had to walk in!  Finally, one loud belch of a squawk too many, I had had it.  Switching the hose to the jet setting, I made my own feelings known.  Bullseye!

 

Yes, I know it isn’t nice to hose down the birds.  But it felt pretty darned good. 

 

Take THAT, Damien!