Abstract
l though ever since my childhood I dreamed of being close to animals, I never though I'd share my house with two mischievous ravens. In 1995 my husband Jim and I had two of these most intelligent birds in our care under a special permit held by the Santa Barbara Wildlife Care Network. Kong was estimated to be between 25-30 years old. He spent much of his life in a small wire rabbit hutch against the side of a house, and was rescued from that situation by a kind neighbor.
Bert
We acquired him to keep Bertram (then two years old and imprinted) company during the day. In the evening we brought them both into the house to break up their boredom - provided Jim and I were both available to watch them, since, as you will soon discover, it takes plenty of attention to watch two ravens.
Bert in particular was blessed with boundless energy, abundant curiosity, and the uncontrollable urge to use his fourteen-in-one toolkit beak, frequently to dismantle items I thought I had placed safely out of his reach. I found only one thing that kept him from objects of his desire - long skinny animal balloons. He was terrified of them. Without these blessed objects, life with Bert would have been impossible. Strategic placement of animal balloons around the house kept Bert from destroying our most precious possessions.
During the first few months of his stay here Bert's favorite night perch was in our bathroom on top of the· shower door, his bottom conveniently facing into the shower. He quickly became territorial about this spot after dark, and anyone going in to use the bathroom would have to endure a severe raven scolding. Bless our two teenage sons who decided on their own to give up taking showers after dark for Bert's sake.
I liked the bathroom perch idea. For one thing it was easy to clean up _in the morning, and for another I could shoo Bert into the bathroom (the only room with a door in the house) when his antics got a bit much. He understood this arrangement too as became evident one day: I had just finished cleaning one mess he had made when I turned around and saw that he was already starting another project - he was intensely working on turning a loaf of bread into crumbs. Not that he was eating any of it - oh no! He was purely enjoying the act of dismantling it.
With each step I took toward him he began working faster and harder, until, when I had almost reached him, he dropped the bread bag, walked into the bathroom, and hopped obediently onto his shower perch as if to reprimand himself for his naughtiness.
As time went on, however, he resented the closing of the bathroom door more and more, and finally communicated this to us in his ravenly manner. One evening we had put him in the bathroom so we could safely go out to eat. When we returned I opened the bathroom door to let him out. But what a sight. Toilet paper - lots of it! The roll must have been first measured for length, and then shredded. A spare roll was soaking in the toilet.
Much of what little jewelry I owned had been disassembled and, along with every one of our towels also stuffed into the toilet. Retrieving the jewelry proved difficult. Everything else formerly on shelves was on the floor, much of it in pieces. The garbage had been emptied, and the most private pieces of feminine trash selected, taken apart and colorfully arranged across the bathroom floor. The giant wrath of a two-pound bird.
Soon he figured out that if he simply didn't go into the bathroom any more there would be no door closing on him. He chose a new spot to spend the night: the topmost shelf above the kitchen sink where he could see all the action and join in at a moment's notice.
So night showers were okay again, but late-night food fixing was not, as it awakened the interest of both ravens who were expert thieves of not only food, but utensils, margarine tubs, salt and pepper shakers, or anything else that looked...