A Pet Worth a Thousand Stories

by Kathleen M. Brosius

Our house was yellow. Mama said it was the most popular color of the times. My room was upstairs in the southeastern corner. Two windows gave me a nice breeze. I loved watching my lace curtains wave to each other when the wind blew. One window opened onto the front porch roof.

We had pets—stray cats, goldfish, worms, frogs, turtles, and a little beagle mix named Tippy. She had a chopped off tail-poor thing. And one spring we adopted a bird.

Daddy was a commercial fisherman. With my grandpa and Uncle Pede, he worked on the sloughs of the “Old Man,” the mighty Mississippi River. They fished year-round pulling in great hauls of mostly Buffalo, sort of the Cadillac of carp. My brothers and I would climb into the bed of Uncle Pede’s old green pickup. Tons of fish packed in ice accompanied us, as we rode to the fish-market. What fun. Daddy would dig into his pocket for nickels and away we would run up the street to Dutch’s to buy an ice cream cone.

One day, as Daddy was coasting along the banks of the Minnesota Slough in his launch, his fishing boat, he spotted a small bird at the base of a big cottonwood tree. A baby crow had fallen from its nest and was all alone. His loud squawks and failed attempts to take flight caught the attention of our dad. He could not resist rescuing this little creature. After tenderly tucking him deep inside his warm coat, this tiny bird settled in for a long, deserved nap.

We fell in love with our new pet, giving him a name that one of us cried out as a rhyme. Joe Crow was welcomed into our family immediately and he soon learned to trust us. He loved bread chunks soaked in milk and gobbled like a turkey when he saw our old puddle jumper pulling into the driveway. Daddy always had a carton filled with fish entrails and Joe hopped around with impatient joy until we began pulling the raw meat out. Down the hatch it went. With open bill, Joe begged for more and more until he was so full he could hardly walk. Another thing Joe craved was vinegar. Whenever the big jug was opened, he would jump up and perch on the back of a kitchen chair and start begging. We would pour a little into a bowl and Joe would spread his ebony wings, hunch over the intoxicating liquid and act like he was just that—intoxicated. Mama would order us, and Joe to stop acting so foolish and the playing would have to stop.

Joe went with us to school, riding either on a bike handlebar or a shoulder. He loved joining us on trips to the islands where an ancient shanty housed supplies for a weekend stay, or an overnight shelter for tired fishermen. Daddy kept Joe’s wings slightly clipped so he could not fly very far. He didn’t seem to want to.

One day as we prepared for a journey, the car keys were nowhere to be found. After a long search, the journey was canceled with frowns directed at Joe. Assuming that he was the culprit who stole the keys, we thought that they were lost forever. Later that evening, just before Joe came in for the night (he happily roosted on a strong beam in our warm dark basement) I heard tapping on my window. Curious, I peered out. There was our little Joe on the roof of our porch. The streetlight’s glow reflected off a shining object at his feet. I opened my window and he hopped in, leaving the car keys behind. I crawled out onto the roof and retrieved the keys. The following morning we began again to prepare for our day’s journey in our 1952 Ford.

We enjoyed Joe Crow’s affection and companionship for a long time. He tormented Tippy’s short stub tail and entertained all of our friends and a few teachers. My heart holds warm memories of all of our pets, but only one is worth a book full of stories. That is Joe Crow.