Corvus by Esther Woolfson

Author:Esther Woolfson [Esther Woolfson]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781847082947
Publisher: Granta & Portobello Books
Published: 2008-10-07T04:00:00+00:00

It’s often suggested that, without language, thought (and indeed consciousness) is, if not impossible, then limited, but is all human thought framed within language? Is there not impression, sense, a series of sensations, underlying the process of thought? Might it not be that there are other ways to think? Do we know enough of another species’ language to know?

Certain ways of behaving are known to be the adjunct of intelligence in birds, playing and caching among them. Although some scientists are sceptical of the use of words such as ‘play’ being applied to animals or birds since it’s behaviour that would bestow no advantage in terms of survival or reproduction, many others recognise the extensive play behaviour of animals and birds, describing snowboarding ravens, crows who drop twigs then fly to catch them before they reach the ground, the teasing, chasing, amazing aerial displays. Why should it be different from the benefits of learning, social cohesion and enjoyment that humans derive from play? When I say that Spike enjoyed playing, I can think of few reasons that would have made him engage so vigorously in his magpie version of football, on his own or with anyone who was prepared to engage in this unusual sport, chasing a ball he had nudged with his beak, running after it when it was kicked for him by someone else, other than simply for pleasure. He loved play-fighting of all sorts, and his collection of toys, which he put carefully into and took out of his toybox.

Recently, coming out of work, David saw in the grounds of the hospital three rooks, this year’s young, who had found a discarded but not empty lager can. They were pushing the can to and fro, jumping on it, rolling on the ground, trying to drink the remains of the lager. (It was after rain. There was plenty of water in puddles to satisfy thirst.) It may of course have been, not play, but ‘brand recognition’, like that of the crows described in In the Company of Crows and Ravens who have learned to recognise the logo of a well-known fast food company; perhaps the Scottish rook, so habituated to the sight of this particular lager, has decided that no other will do.

Chicken loves to play with paper, ripping it, tossing it into the air, scattering it. As I write, she’s playing enthusiastically with an elastic band. For years, she played with the rubber mice I bought for her, throwing them around, pouncing on them, carrying them by the tail in her beak. Blue and red and yellow, they were routinely, inadvertently thrown out by me during house-cleaning. More were bought to replace them until the day when, very suddenly, for a reason I don’t know, rubber mice disappeared. Someone somewhere had stopped manufacturing them. Everywhere I go now, every foreign city, I seek out pet shops, but without joy. The sole world source of rubber mice has gone. Instead, I’ve given her a rubber frog which she

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