PETER BUFFA -- Comments & Curiosities

Interesting story in the news. Interesting if you’re a crow, that is,

or worry about crows.

I myself fall into the latter category. As you know, I have written on

these very pages about the disturbingly large populations of crows that

besiege, bother, harass and otherwise annoy various neighborhoods across

the land of Newport-Mesa, mine included. And as you may recall, my most

recent mention of the nasty little beasts -- who have been a symbol of

death and destruction around the world for thousands of years but don’t

let that prejudice you -- was a tale of how I watched with great joy as

an owl who lives on our block turned on a crow who was harassing him, and

beat him like a bongo. I cheered.

So imagine my surprise, just days ago, as I was riding along in my

motor car listening to National Public Radio, when the announcer said:

“Next, the story of a town besieged by crows that tried everything . . .

and finally found something that worked!”

Hmm. “Could it be?” I said to myself. Did we and the crows go

national? Not exactly. Welcome to Chatham, Ontario. A lot of us tend to

equate anything in Canada with the Arctic Circle, but in fact, Chatham is

virtually a suburb of Detroit, which is only 40 miles away, as the crow

flies. Sorry. But what does that mean anyway? Why “the” crow, and not “a”

crow? And what the heck do flying crows have to do with distance? Do

crows fly differently than other birds? If it’s 40 miles as the crow

flies, is it 37 miles as the sparrow flies, or 42.5 miles as the pigeon

flies? I don’t get it. But we digress.

Interestingly enough, Chatham is a city of 110,000 -- almost exactly

the population of Costa Mesa. And how many crows? OK, a teensy weensy bit

more than we have. At last count (and they do count them, every 90 days)

just below 300,000. That’s about three crows for every Chathamite.

(Chathamanian? Chathamoid? Whatever.) The point is, Chatham -- the

Canadian capital of cawing cacophony -- was under siege. The birds were

everywhere, and they were ravenous. (You may as well laugh. I can’t

stop.) The cawing and shrieking of thousands of crows was constant and

unbearable.

The city called in biologists, ornithologists and a few

other-ologists, all of whom stroked their chins, thought deep thoughts

and finally declared that Chatham had become a stop on a migratory route

for crows from all over Eastern Canada.

“OK, fine,” said the Chathamanians, “but what do we do a-boot it, eh?”

Hmm. An awkward pause. It seems that once you become a hub airport for

migrating things, your fate is sealed until the things get bored and move

on. But the little town of Chatham refused to give in. The Chathamites

stood their ground, looked skyward and shook their fists at the

blackhearted blackbirds.

“These are our homes,” they said. “We will never give up.”

“Ooooh,” said the shrieking, smirking crows, “We’re really scared

now!”

First, they tried air guns -- big, “poofing” things that look like BB

guns on steroids. The crows laughed. Then they hired hunters with real

guns -- shotguns, to be exact -- to do the deed. The crows weren’t

laughing. But neither were the townspeople. Innocent bystander birds were

being hurt, and the sporadic shotgun blasts were unnerving.

Someone decided that shining spotlights on trees through the night was

just what the ornithologist ordered. The crows didn’t lose any sleep over

it, but the people sure did. Hanging deceased crows in the trees was the

next gambit, which accomplished nothing, but did gross everyone out,

except the crows, who found it maudlin but intriguing.

My personal favorite was playing tapes of “crows in distress” from

sound trucks. The tapes made the crows feel just terrible, but not

terrible enough to leave. What do you suppose is on the “crows in

distress” tapes? Are there spooky crow sounds, or is it some crow

screaming “Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up,” over and over?

The Chathamoids were despondent. But finally, after so many dismal

failures, they found the answer. And, surprisingly, it leads back to my

recent tale of the owl and the crow. A man from nearby Georgetown,

Ontario, contacted the city and said, “Got crows? Well, I got what you

need.” The man was practiced in one of the world’s oldest sports, the

original “sport of kings.” He was a falconer. His equipment was a heavy

leather glove, some bits of raw meat and an impressive roster of hawks,

falcons and (drum roll, please) owls! The Chathamites were quite pleased.

Apparently, predator birds thoroughly enjoy terrorizing other birds, but

they really, really like to smack crows around. They have the sharpest

eyesight of any living thing and can pick out a parking space on Balboa

Island from two miles away, at night, during the Christmas Boat Parade.

Unbelievable.

Within weeks of the falconers’ letting loose the birds of war, the

crow population was cut by more than 50%. And it’s not like there were

dead crows littering the landscape. Crows are every bit as smart as they

are annoying. They quickly packed up their stuff, turned in their keys

and headed south, or north, or west, or anywhere except where the hawks

and owls were.

So, people of Newport-Mesa, hear me well. No shooting, no poisoning,

and for heaven’s sake none of those dumb “crows in distress” tapes. Let’s

get out there and find some falconers. If Irvine has an “urban forester,”

there’s no reason we can’t have an urban falconer. Very cool, I think.

I gotta go.

* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs Fridays.

He can be reached via e-mail at [email protected].