Mind of the Raven: Investigations and Adventures With Wolf-Birds

by Bernd Heinrich

  Relaxed raven.

  Jakob had glistening black feathers that were clean and well kept. “Once a week, winter or summer, he gets a bath with the garden hose,” Klaus said. “We empty the cat litter from his cage—there is never any smell—and then we take the cage out onto the terrace and direct the garden hose in one corner of it. First he puts his bill and head into the water stream, then his chest and even his back. As a socially liberated bird, he determines the bath’s duration. If the hose is shut off too early, he hollers loudly. When sufficiently bathed, he looks like a plucked chicken. When he starts his feather-care, we take him in. He drips and preens till dry.”

  The garden hose routine was, like many others, a compromise worked out from experience. A big bowl might seem more convenient for bathing, but unfortunately a bath is not the first thing on a raven’s mind when you give him a big bowl full of water. The very first thing a raven does is tip it over. As Klaus pointed out, “To live with a raven in the house requires a certain capacity for compromise.” No kidding. I’d just had my first lesson.

  Family mealtime is, naturally, of special interest to Jakob. As soon as he hears the first dishes rattling, he hops onto the topmost perch in his cage, because that perch affords a better view into bowls and dishes as they are carried past into the dining room. He expects to partake in all of the offerings that come by. When the first bowl goes by, he begins to hop impatiently from perch to perch. If it takes too long until he gets his fair share, he hops ever faster and begins to make loud and penetrating kek-kek-kek calls. These calls do not at all sound like the plaintive food “yells” birds in the wild give when they are near food but can’t yet eat it. Instead, they are the calls ravens make when an intruder such as a hawk or a human comes near their nest. Hearing them, I had little doubt what Jakob was saying. He was saying, “I am frustrated,” which, given the context, meant more specifically, “I want some now.” Since Klaus understands ravenese, Jakob gets the delicacies pronto. It is only fair that just as the Morkramers obey him, so he “obeys” them, as well, coming instantly to “Komm” (come) when he expects a caress or a tidbit in return.

  Jakob bravely eats almost everything that is brought to the table, but he has a strong predilection for Chinese cooking, Hessian cheesecake, and raw bird egg (yolk only, unlike Goliath et al.). He likes fruits—figs, tomatoes, strawberries, preferably with cream and sugar, and grapes, but he turns his head away from apples and oranges, shaking his bill violently with disgust. Jakob has become something of a gourmet, yet I suspect he would not pass up good roadkill.

  When the food is to his liking, he responds with a short, soft, two-note call that he also gives under other circumstances associated with contentment, such as after a particularly satisfying head-scratch. After a good meal, late in the evening, Jakob often entertains himself, and others, with his “talking”—a rambling, throaty warble.

  Living with another creature, you naturally feel closer to it the more activities that can be shared, especially important activities like watching TV. German television is much like American television. It does not have a great deal of interest for raven viewers. So the Morkramers supplement their TV diet with videotapes. During television viewing, Jakob sometimes holds still, watching with one eye from the side of the head, as birds do. But does he see images? It seems so, because one time while watching a show with different mammals, he suddenly became agitated and let loose with alarm calls when a picture of a raccoon came on. He showed no alarm at wolves and deer. Here, it seemed to me, was an excellent opportunity for behavioral test, because it was possible to control what the subject gets to see, which is seldom possible in the wild.

  After we sipped coffee late into the night, Klaus lured Jakob back into his cage with a raw egg, but once inside, the bird showed not a hint of getting tired and wanting sleep. Though not participating in our conversation, he seemed alert and interested. Occasionally, he solicited a head-scratch by fluffing his head at the cage bars, or he poked a piece of paper out as if playfully asking someone to pull it.

  Why didn’t the raven trash the apartment? We can only speculate, but given my subsequent lengthy tests of raven curiosity (Chapter 5), I propose the following explanation. Initially, Jakob had not been free in the apartment. For the first two months, he had remained in the cage. During that time, he had seen most of the apartment, and his interest in its contents had faded. The new things Jakob saw, like my pen, were always the objects that people carried about in their hands, so they were interesting enough to warrant further notice. Investigation of the new things could be motivated by curiosity, and it has been the curious birds that through evolution have always found the unexpected and perhaps rare food items that others passed up. The corvid line of birds all share this capacity of curiosity. It is their trademark. One wonders if it is the key that has allowed them to flourish and diversify. They say curiosity killed the cat, but curiosity is also adaptive, provided it is backed up with good judgment.

  My next close and personal encounter was with Merlin, an eight-year-old in the family of Californians Duane Callahan and Susan Marfield. It was early August in southern California, at “Camp Pozo” near San Luis Obispo, where I had come to spend the week. Camp Pozo is a ramshackle trailer with its various accoutrements spread out under the live oaks on a hillside. In evidence were several old dead vehicles and various other debris from casual, long-term human occupancy. This little Shangri-la is located at the end of a dirt road on a cattle ranch near the town of Pozo. Pozo itself is little more than a few houses around a saloon under a big cottonwood tree. Duane and Susan have come here for the last eight years to vacation with Merlin and to visit Charles, Duane’s brother. Lady, an Australian sheepdog, two horses, and Katche, a cat, reside there as well.

  We had come the day before from Santa Cruz in the Callahans’ orange Chevy truck with the blue camper top that has been marked up with a few white decorations from Merlin himself. Merlin always travels inside, in his wire screen carry-on cage that is jokingly called his “jail.” On camping trips, he treats it as his home base and sanctuary, returning to it eagerly at night, wherever it may be found. At the Callahans’ home in the deep, dark redwood groves near Santa Cruz, Merlin’s cage sits on a stand of two-by-fours in the living roomkitchen. Merlin is let free in the house daily, and he spends most of his free time perched on Duane’s knee. Merlin is calm as a clam most of the time, although once a day he gets animated and flies around the room, negotiating the tight turns around the central fan with no problem. The door and living room window are left open in the summer, but he never tries to go outside, although he has every opportunity to do so.

  After we had loaded him into his cage and put that into the camper, we eagerly began the four-hour drive to Pozo. Merlin perched forward, maintaining contact with Duane in the cab. Like a dog eager to come home after a long drive, Merlin became restless, and excitedly hopped about when we got within a mile or two of our destination. Once there, Duane immediately let him out. With few preliminaries, Merlin launched himself high into the air, flying several loops above the chaparral before circling down and alighting on Duane’s shoulder.

  At camp, he sleeps in his cage just as he does in Santa Cruz, but he wakes up earlier. It is not safe to be out when the great horned owls begin to fly, and each evening, one commonly does fly by Camp Pozo. Merlin appears anxiously to seek out Duane in the evening to be “tucked into bed.” In the morning, Duane again lets him out. Even though Merlin is here in the wild, he stays near his “family.”

  Young ravens sleep by bowing head (left) or tucking head into feathers of back (right).

  His first calls the morning I was there were typical loud raven calls. Nobody got up. He next tried two series of high-pitched calls that mimicked crow alarm calls. It was the first time I had ever heard a raven sound like a crow. He followed up with a two-note rasping call that I also had not heard before, then he softly uttered a series of “Hi, Hi, Hi,” and “Merlin, Merlin, Merlin…” and so
me barely audible gurgling noises that I couldn’t decipher. He had his own unique vocabulary.

  When we arose at last, thirsty for strong hot coffee, Merlin was silent again. Duane said that Merlin used to try to get him up early by making a lot of noise.

  Duane, with coffee cup in hand, looked at the cloudless blue sky and declared, “Another hot one. Merlin won’t do a lot of flying. He’d rather spend his time on my shoulder in the shade.” With that, he walked to the trailer, crawled inside, and exchanged morning greetings with Merlin.

  “Merlin—how are you?”

  Merlin and Duane in mutual greeting ceremony.

  A few soft grunts came from within.

  “Want to come out now?”

  “Mm, mm,” said Merlin.

  After Merlin gave a few more soft mm’s and grunts, Duane opened the “jail” door. Merlin, sleek and eager, hopped out. After the exchange of a few more pleasantries, he flew up to Duane’s shoulder.

  “Want some chicken?”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Tasty?”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Is this special?”

  “Mm.”

  “Want some more?”

  “Mm.”

  “Alright!”

  Merlin and Susan.

  Social amenities and long conversations over, Merlin spun his head back and forth, scanning in all directions. He blinked once or twice, and flew off with strongly beating wings over the clearing and through the oaks. Soon he was high above them. After several circles over Camp Pozo, he banked steeply, and I heard the air being forced through his wings in a continuous rippling sound as he dove and again landed on Duane’s shoulder, fluffed out and shook. He was feeling great. Duane continued to sip his coffee, and continued the conversation.

  “You are just about the most beautiful thing under the sun,” he said, caressing Merlin’s head feathers.

  “Mm.”

  Duane and Susan raised Merlin from his pinfeathery fledgling stage, when young ravens have been described as some “grotesque miniature gargoyles.” He is their only “child,” and he receives considerably more daily attention than most children of even a one-child family.

  Merlin ignored me totally, and he would continue to do so for the rest of the week. He pecked lightly at my hand if I intruded it near his face. When I brought my hand near him a second time, he emitted a growl, fluffed his feathers, and pecked much harder. I did not dare to try it a third time. He is bonded most strongly to Duane. If given a choice, he spends his time with no other human. If Duane is gone, he approaches Susan. Other members of the family whom he has known for years are not approached.

  His memory for individual people seems to be indelible. When Duane and Susan were away for six months, Merlin stayed with Duane’s brother, whom he already knew and accepted. When they came back, his reaction to Duane was instant and strong. “He bolted from Charles to my shoulder instantly, as if I’d never left. Then he stayed on me like a burr the rest of the day. On that day, he also became unusually aggressive, showing his dominance through feather posture. He drove off the magpies, chased the vultures and a Cooper’s hawk. Was he trying to reestablish his worthiness as a mate?”

  Duane’s observations not only attest to the bird’s long-term memory, but also address his fidelity. If he distinguishes and remembers individuals of another species as well as he does, it stands to reason that ravens in the wild recognize members of their own species at least as well, and bond to them as long and as strongly. How well could we distinguish one raven from another and infallibly remember them?

  Charles served bacon and eggs, which we ate under the live oak trees. Merlin perched on Duane. He was picky, eating only in small bites. He may already have fed from his staple, the canned dog food always available in his jail. He does not cache surplus food because he rarely needs food for a “rainy day,” as do wild ravens. Perhaps that is because there never has been a “rainy day” in his life; food is never an issue—it is always available. No great effort needs to be spent where it is not needed. Nevertheless, crediting him with optimal efficiency in energy allocation may be premature—although Merlin rarely caches food he spends considerable time and effort caching such useless things as wood chips and other trinkets.

  After spending a half hour or so on Duane’s shoulder, he hopped down to the ground to dig in the soil and to pick at wood chips and other debris. One nondescript four-inch wood chip in particular drew his attention. He tried to shove it into the sandy soil, succeeding only partially, then covered up the rest with debris scraped from the sides. He placed a leaf or two on top. Almost invariably, a small section of the chip still showed. He tried to tamp this part down by pecking it hard. As a result, the whole chip got uncovered, and the whole process was repeated. Then he dug a small trench nearby using alternate sideswipes of his partially open bill. He picked the chip up, laid it into the trench, and scraped the surrounding soil over it with his bill. Finished? No. Within two or three minutes, he was back to dig the chip up, and he then repeated the process in a similar manner with the same or some other chip.

  Someone from the appreciatively watching audience offered him a strip of bacon. He flew off with it onto the ground of the nearby hillside, where a flock of about a dozen yellow-billed magpies immediately joined him. He made rasping-growling calls at them, then returned to us. The magpies then dug in the soil all around where he had been, perhaps searching for the cached bacon.

  It was barely eleven o’clock, and the sun was blazing hot. Our caffeine levels were up to par, but the heat was already inducing some of us to reach for a cool beer. Merlin, too, got offered a few sips of brew through a tipped flip-top can. A few sips was all he took, although on hot days he has been known to indulge in more than he should. He “gets a little unsteady on his legs and wings,” I was told.

  We decided to take a half-mile walk through the hills to a springfed pond to catch a few largemouth bass for supper. Just as we were ready to leave, Merlin became uncharacteristically loath to follow Duane. Whenever we started to walk, he refused to budge from the roof of a junked car parked under the large live oak by the trailers. He just sat tight, holding up our little expedition as we waited for him. Duane thought Merlin knew we wanted him to come. He told me, “Whenever you want him to do something, he becomes suspicious and doesn’t do it. You have to be surreptitious, by acting nonchalant, as if you don’t want him to do it, before he will do it.” To get him to come when he didn’t want to would be a challenge. Duane wasn’t eager to leave him alone, because last year while Merlin was flying near camp, a golden eagle swooped unseen out of the sky from behind and grabbed him in midair. Duane saved him by erupting in a sudden and violent burst of yelling that induced the eagle to drop his intended prey. When Merlin fluttered to the ground he had blood on his feathers and in his mouth.

  Duane again tried to coax Merlin onto his shoulder. This time, instead of merely flying away, Merlin growled his agitation calls at his “mate.” He was giving Duane a message that even I could read. It said, “Go away—I don’t want to go.” Duane and Merlin repeated the same maneuvers five minutes later with no different results. Finally, Duane suggested that we just go, and “when we’ve gone far enough, he’ll see we’re not trying to put something over on him, and then he might come because he wants to.” Merlin was never trained with rewards of food. He does what he wants, when he wants, and I suspect that Duane is the one who is trained, not Merlin.

  We walked about two hundred yards in the direction of the fishpond. No Merlin. We found shade and waited ten minutes. When Merlin still didn’t appear, Duane went back to do some “negotiating.” Sue, Charles, and I continued to wait for another five minutes. “Must be having negotiating troubles,” Charles remarked.

  A minute or so later, Merlin finally took to the air—not to ride on Duane’s shoulder, but to sail over him and fly to us instead, landing on the ground by Susan. When we got up to go farther, Merlin continued to be recalcitrant. He did not follow
Duane, but again flew to Susan instead. Duane remarked that he was having some “marital problems” with his bird today. Sue as much as acknowledges that Duane is married to Merlin.

  The dusty trail we walked read like an open book of the previous days’ and nights’ activity. There were tracks of quail and lizards, scats of coyote and bobcat. There were stray feathers of owls and hawks. We flushed cottontail rabbits and jackrabbits from brush along the sides. Merlin paid them no visible attention. He seemed to be interested only in perching in a shady spot.

  We came to a white oak where a spring seeps to a trickle of water. The dense foliage above was atwitter with goldfinches and titmice. A succession of hummingbirds hummed down to the trickle to dart back and forth between sips. As many as six of them at a time perched on dry twigs five feet from me.

  Merlin stayed near this tree, and the others walked on ahead to the pond. They were soon out of sight. I stayed to observe Merlin watching the birds coming to drink at the spring. He dawdled, pecking bark and softly murmuring to himself in barely audible tones. I approached in order to hear him better. He then produced several renditions of the very loud and high-pitched crow calls. Duane said he often makes them when he is frustrated or upset. As Merlin crow-cawed, he allowed me to get right next to him, acting as if he didn’t even see me. When I held out my hand to him, he gave it a sharp peck.

  Duane, attracted by the “crow” calls, came back to the spring. “How are you Merlin?…Everything okay?…You are a pretty bird….” Merlin at first showed his “ears,” following up with head fluffing, bowing, and soft murmurings. Duane also bowed, blinked, and made a sound like a yawn. I wasn’t sure who was mimicking whom. The bowing ceremony appeared to say, “Look at me—I’m wonderful.” Merlin stood tall, puffed his head up some more, lifted his bill, and spread his shoulders. As he bowed, he spread his wings and tail and made a choking noise like a sigh, just like Duane’s yawn. “This greeting,” Duane said, “is never given to strangers.” The mutual greetings are also performed every day when Duane comes home from work. If Duane neglects them, Merlin sulks.