My baby boy killed a crow.

Well, that's not actually accurate: he's not quite a baby, and he's entirely not "mine."
The rookie murderer in question entered into my life (and life in general) about a year ago. His mother is a petite, grey-haired, temperamental little spitfire who goes by the name of Muse. That's not her first name, not her last name, it's just her name. Like Madonna, I guess, but more honest. Her and I had been knowing each other for some time-- a couple of years-- and then one day she just went out and got knocked up by some creepy homeless alley guy.

Out of the blue. All of a sudden. Just like that.

Honestly, I was more surprised than angered by the whole turn of affairs. I mean, I know that nature has its own way and each of us must do what is bidden of us; I just wished she'd had better taste in a temporary mate. Regardless, her and I remain in cohabitation and she'll come to lay with me from time to time, but mostly we're each at liberty to engage in our own pursuits. It's a comfortable and satisfactory arrangement for both of us.

As the baby has grown, his mother has become increasingly aloof and careless with him. She even smacked him once! Naturally, there came to pass an adoption of parental positioning on my part, regarding the health and well-being of this, the littlest among us. It's similar in scope to a part-time job, which is just fine by me. He's a real sweetheart. It's a comfortable and satisfactory arrangement for all of us.

Imagine me as I returned from a trip abroad (where was it, to the coast? Across the mountains? Down Alcan Road?) to find a real-life dead crow, smack-dab, in the center of the garden. I asked myself, 'Who even does that?' Though I knew in my heart that it must be he, since I had locked his mother in the garage before I left. It's a game we play. I pretend not to notice she's in there, and she pretends not to care. It's a lot of fun. So it couldn't have been her.

I stood over the avian misplacement for a time, wondering on any number of variables, modification of which might distinguish the 'lowly' crow from the 'stately' raven. Curve of the beak, shape of the tail? I plucked four glinting tail feathers, the cones in my eyes delighting in the tender polychromatic glissade of deep purple and abyssal blue, and I knew quietly to myself, "Crow." One feather each, for the members of the household. I stowed them safely and went to attend my duty.

With a gentle hand I lifted the crow from the ground, its head dangling dully this way and that, scaly feet clenched slightly in surrender to irreversibility. I wondered momentarily at what merit might be inherent in a quick detour, shears in the shed. Talismanic crow's foot? A heavy, thickly sweet odor blossomed from the dampened spot I had uncovered, and the grue crept then across my skin and my spirit, so I decided to skip the procedure. I wondered why, and wherefrom, as I carried the bird across the alley, attempting a cradle with my fingers-- nothing too embracing, you understand, for the carrion had been making quick work of what there was to be quickly made work of-- and I found a soft grassy patch beneath a lean and vibrant young alder, upon which to lay my charge. I fussed with it a few times as I lay it down, somehow compulsively intent on finding what exact positioning might allow my new friend the most reasonable relaxation into dissipation. I spread the wings apart to allow it one last dignity of form, as though in flight, tattered as it was with its twisted neck and a hole in its breast. I reverently fingered the coarse bristle-like feathers around its eyes and nostrils, humming a slight and breezy melody, mumbling some words under my breath, something to the effect of "nice to have met you," and "farewell," and probably some "good luck," to boot. The language couldn't have been understood, but the feeling, I feel, was felt.

Somberly my stride carried me, back across the alley toward the afternoon rays and any promise the day might hold for the living, with the pungent miasma of decay keeping ever apace. After all: death-- it lingers.

As I approached the driveway I saw him, the slayer, handsomely beaming his brains out as he waddled in his customary trot, heading straight for me.

"Mrrrrt?"

I stooped to lift him and hugged him tightly to my chest, nuzzling my face into his long luxurious fur.

"Yeah, Bobu, I found it. That was so sweet, my little killer, such a fancy killer! Thank you!"

We didn't speak the same language, but the feeling, I felt, was felt.