While going through the dull mechanics of shaving, I was jarred by raucous bird squawks. The best I could make of it, a lynch party of ostriches had the house surrounded.

Peeking out the bathroom window, I saw a lone black crow perched on the porch railing, cocking his head this way and that.

This bird clearly knew what he looking for. Not finding it, he was having a tantrum.

The object of his desire: kibble, the cheap Costco stuff we put out for our cats.

What chutzpah. A wild bird demanding breakfast.

But why kibble? A crow with this much swagger could probably eat anywhere he wanted. If I worked at Butter Cream and Mr. Crow walked in, I’d feed him.

Spying the crow, I now understood the source of the massive bird splotches, more seagull than sparrow, that had begun appearing on the deck. While we were away at work, this crow had been living large at our place.

Now chowing down all day was no longer good enough. This guy was demanding breakfast before I had mine.

Not that I was surprised. It played right into my crow stereotypes. Could anything be more crow?

For a moment I considered dropping my razor and charging out the back door. I would fight for kibble.

Then I thought, why me? It’s not my kibble dish that’s being plundered. Don’t the cats have more at stake?

Yoo-hoo, Kitten. Wake up, Calico. A crow is holding your kibble dish hostage.

Despite this blatant challenge to their cathood, our warrior felines were no where to be found. I suspected they were in the garage, cowering.

That’s a strong accusation, you might say. Where’s the benefit of the doubt?

I’m sorry. A bird is on the porch raising holy hell and the cats maintain they missed the whole thing — sleeping in, don’t you know. I just don’t buy it.

I vowed to have a good talking to with the cats. Does not a cat weigh more than a crow? Are not cats armed to the teeth ... and claw.

What does a crow have? A beak, yes, but mostly a world-class attitude.

In whose world does attitude trump fang and claw? In this one, apparently.

At breakfast I told Cheryl of the crow incident. The biggest crow you ever saw, I said. I can’t imagine encountering a more ferocious winged creature, except maybe a pterodactyl.

She asked how I had responded to the crow provocation.

Respond? There was no response, I said. A riled up crow is not something you mess with unless you’re fully dressed and armed with a stick. I was neither.

Cheryl recalled a crow incident from a few years earlier. We were working in the front yard when a flock, beset with hysterics, descended on the property.

All that cawing and flapping about — it didn’t make any sense outside of a Alfred Hitchcock movie.

Then Cheryl noted the source of the crows’ consternation: a fake black bird, a Halloween prop, lay on the driveway.

The crows had identified this mass of feathers as one of their own. A fallen crow. In mobbing our house, they were rallying to its defense. Or was it grieving?

As soon as I hid the Halloween bird in the garage the crows disappeared. Silly birds, I said.

Yet I was sobered by their display of collective intelligence. Birds with enough smarts to sound an alarm and come together for the common good are special birds indeed.

Which brought me back to the scene at the kibble dish. Were we dealing with a single renegade crow with an acquired taste for kibble or was an entire flock poaching from our porch?

If a flock were to show up for breakfast, we didn’t stand a chance. Most specifically, who among us would be brave enough to make the dash for the morning newspaper?

We should consider bringing the kibble dish indoors ... and the cats with it, Cheryl said. There’s no reasoning with birds.

Capitulate to crows? I think not, especially when I know their weak spot.

I will buy a bagful of black feathers, then scatter them around the kibble dish, creating a scene of carnage. If crows are the highly evolved creatures they appear to be, one glimpse and they should lose their appetites.

Then again, I’m dealing with notoriously cranky birds. My feathers ruse might only make them crankier.

I hope this doesn’t backfire. They might beat the stuffing out of the cats.