Bud loves fly-fishing. We camped at Dynamite Hill Campground near the Little Missouri River in Arkansas. Before daylight, I had coffee, sausage, biscuits, and eggs on our picnic table, under the tall pines. We enjoyed breakfast as the sun came up over the hills. Since it was a brisk morning and we weren’t concerned about spoilage, we wrapped our leftover sausage biscuits in foil and left them on the picnic table for the second breakfast we anticipated when Bud came back from his morning’s fishing. I took the opportunity to snuggle back under the covers with the dogs.
As I snoozed off and on through the morning, I noticed the birds were noisier than those at home. Near ten, I put on another pot of coffee, expecting Bud to show up soon.
I heard Bud shouting before I saw him. “Get out of here, you dirty little 4$.(@/s.” Mumble, rhrrrr, grumble!” I saw a rock fly skyward, then another, as I stepped out with a cup of hot coffee. The picnic table was littered with tattered scraps of napkins. Not a sausage biscuit remained! The jam was overturned. Had they only had opposable thumbs, I’m sure they’d have emptied the jar. As I glanced skyward. I saw the sun shining on bits of foil decorating the lower branches. A further inspection revealed that the observant crows had taken every sausage biscuit. Only a few crumbs lay neglected. Had Bud only been a few minutes later, they’d have been history, too. The crows didn’t seem a bit grateful, offering only raucous complaints at Bud’s fist-shaking, rock-throwing deprecations.
Nutsrok 