I survived a CROW ATTACK!! BOZE vs. BIRD!

It was one of those rare sunny Seattle spring mornings. I was walking to work along 7th Ave alongside dozens of others happily basking in the morning glow, when suddenly, BAM! Something hit my head, causing it to lurch forward. I turned, expecting to see a thug or bum seeking a fight, but instead confronted a black-winged menace… a crow!

Flapping its wings like a living gargoyle, it retreated to the wire above, taunting me with the sound of it’s caaw. Strutting on the wire, the aggressive creature knew I could do nothing but stare coldly and vow revenge.

I rubbed the top of my head, turned and kept walking until YANK!–the crow attacked again, pulling the weakened hair follicles in the process of dying due to male-pattern baldness! That did it! This crow had crossed the line! I glared menacing at the crow but it turned it’s head as if to tell me I wasn’t even worth his attention.

I walked into work, amazed that I, unique among men, had been targeted by a crow. “Now that’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience!” I thought.

I was wrong.

Day 2: Same attack. Same place. Same crow (or so I believe). Again,the final stretch of my walk was marred by the public humiliation that comes from being attacked by a crow on a crowded sidewalk with no way to fight back, and fear that I had been pooped on.

Day 3: The Day I Fought Back.

I walked the same stretch of sidewalk, aside many of the same people, at the same time of day–my usual routine. But THIS time, hanging at my side, close to my leg so as not to draw attention, was my racket ball racket. My peripheral vision caught site of the black beast on the wire above. I fought the urge to look up, and instead stared down at the ground where I saw the shadow of the winged demon headed for the thinning hair of my head. Microseconds ticked away–but I knew this would require PERFECT timing. Too soon, and the crow would veer off, too late, and my head would getting a pecking. I gave it as look as I could then TURNED SUDDENLY, swinging my racket up over my head and directly at my nemesis crow.

The beast seemed to pause in mid-air, flapping his wings, feet out– a look of surprise on his face. I saw my rack come down on an apparent collision course with the crow! But by the thinnest of margins, the racket met only with air! I leapt up for a second swing, but learned that the stereotype of “White Men Can’t Jump” was written specifically with me in mind, and the crow shot up to the safety of his wire, cackling nervously about his newly formidable foe.

The crow and I never did battle again. Sure, he threatened, but he always stayed on the wire, cawing a little, but properly chastised.

BIRD 2, BOZE 1– but I call it a draw.