So, as a vet, there are certain things that you come to expect when interacting with animals. Wild animals, especially. And I had nothing to suggest to me that this wasn't another wild animal.
Maybe this raven was owned by a local? Maybe it was tame. That would at least help fill in the logic gaps that my brain is desperate to populate.
I am a scientist. My mates used to call me the vulcan - I like logic. I like things to make sense. Science and logic go well together. Veterinary medicine and logic go well together.
Why is there a raven in this snowy tundra? Why does it seem interested in me? (Did it call out to me before?!)
My brain can only jump to the most logical solution: It is someone's pet, tame, and unafraid to approach humans, and that is why it is behaving this way.
I'm a vet. I know animal behaviour. This is the only conclusion that makes sense.
It makes another noise, a gentler yet still just as vocal croak, and I can't help but think that it's trying to communicate directly to me. An itch forms at the back of my head, under my hood. Absentmindedly, I scratch at it.
"Hey bud," I murmur loud enough to be heard across the ever-decreasing distance between myself and the bird. "Who do you belong to, hm?" I ask, rummaging through my pockets still to see what else might still be on my person in this strange new world.
I find a packet of rations, some simple biscuits, and open them, breaking the crumbly, buttery biscuit in half, tossing one half out in front of me to land on the snow (as potential enticement for the bird to land/come closer) and munching on the other half.
Life seems a lot simpler when one eats a cookie.
Maybe this raven was owned by a local? Maybe it was tame. That would at least help fill in the logic gaps that my brain is desperate to populate.
I am a scientist. My mates used to call me the vulcan - I like logic. I like things to make sense. Science and logic go well together. Veterinary medicine and logic go well together.
Why is there a raven in this snowy tundra? Why does it seem interested in me? (Did it call out to me before?!)
My brain can only jump to the most logical solution: It is someone's pet, tame, and unafraid to approach humans, and that is why it is behaving this way.
I'm a vet. I know animal behaviour. This is the only conclusion that makes sense.
It makes another noise, a gentler yet still just as vocal croak, and I can't help but think that it's trying to communicate directly to me. An itch forms at the back of my head, under my hood. Absentmindedly, I scratch at it.
"Hey bud," I murmur loud enough to be heard across the ever-decreasing distance between myself and the bird. "Who do you belong to, hm?" I ask, rummaging through my pockets still to see what else might still be on my person in this strange new world.
I find a packet of rations, some simple biscuits, and open them, breaking the crumbly, buttery biscuit in half, tossing one half out in front of me to land on the snow (as potential enticement for the bird to land/come closer) and munching on the other half.
Life seems a lot simpler when one eats a cookie.
Chulane
sxc.hu
whimzi on deviantart
