Mr. Write's Page

When we Smiths lived in Tokyo in the early 1950s, one of our neighbors had a pet crow named Inky.

Inky was as calm and as tame as an overweight housecat. I never saw him fly. He probably had a bum wing or something. I don’t recall the details now.

But flight wasn’t necessary. Someone was always available to chauffeur him around, hand-feed him, and otherwise treat him royally. Inky had a soft life.

Inky’s owners were never around, or at least I don’t remember them being present. He simply would be in the care of one or two kids for a while, and then someone else would take over.

Inky spent plenty of time with me. Sometimes he perched on my shoulder, sometimes he rode on my bike rack. If I went to the Base Exchange, he would remain outside, perched unrestrained on the bike until I returned. Everyone on the base knew him. It was no big deal.

Me and Inky.

When you cared for Inky, one of your duties was to feed him. His diet was simple: several times a day, a few spoonfuls of a bland, whitish substance the consistency of Pablum.

Actually, the stuff tasted like Pablum. I know, because I sampled it. It probably was Pablum.

Whatever it was, Inky’s rations traveled with him in a small jar. When feeding time came, you fed it to him with a spoon.

Most animals easily learn to eat from a fork or spoon. My dog Paco is quite adept at delicately plucking a grape from the tines of a fork.

Inky was no different. You simply scooped up some Pablum, poked at his bill until he opened up, and dumped a blob inside.

When the blob went in, Inky would raise his beak to the sky, shake his head vigorously, and the payload went south.

One day, I forgot that Inky was a birdbrain. As I was feeding him, he caught me off guard. Instead of allowing the Pablum to be dumped in, he clamped down on the spoon and jerked it from my hand.

When he raised his beak and shook his head, the spoon disappeared down his gullet.

Inky blinked and peered and jerked his head around as usual, seemingly unaffected. It was a small spoon.

I, of course, let out a cry of anguish. I ran home and told Mom, who called Inky’s owner, who came and collected him. The base veterinarian removed the spoon successfully, and Inky was unharmed.

But Inky was never again left in my care.

Inky, me, and Mom. Photo taken prior to the spoon incident.