Claude the Crow had many talents—stealing pegs, gossiping louder than the residents, and dropping nuts on unsuspecting heads—but his favourite pastime was drinking from the village rain gauge.
Every morning, just before sunrise, Claude would flap down to the neat little weather station beside the community garden. He’d look left, look right, make sure no one was watching (they always were), and then dunk his beak straight into the gauge like it was his personal cocktail glass. A few slurps, a satisfied “CAW!”, and he’d be off again.
Meanwhile, inside the village, confusion reigned.
“Forty millimetres overnight!” shouted one resident triumphantly. “I knew those clouds looked nasty!”
“Nonsense,” argued another. “Zero millimetres! The gauge was bone dry when I looked!”
Soon, the place was buzzing with meteorological mayhem. Gardeners were overwatering their begonias. The lawn bowls team cancelled practice because they were sure the greens were flooded. One poor fellow even claimed he’d seen Noah himself backing the Ark into the car park.
Finally, the mystery was solved when someone caught Claude mid-sip, perched proudly on the rim like he owned the Bureau of Meteorology.
Caught red-beaked, Claude simply shrugged, gave a defiant “CAW!”, and took another long drink—as if to say, If you’re going to leave free refreshments out, what do you expect?
From then on, the residents agreed on just one thing:
The rain gauge doesn’t measure rainfall anymore…
It measures how thirsty Claude is.
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Claude the Crow wasn’t your average bird. While other crows spent their days scavenging and squabbling, Claude considered himself something of a cultured gentleman. He strutted around the village like a feathery committee member, chest puffed out, wings slightly akimbo, as if he owned everything from the bins to the bowling green.
One morning, Claude decided he was too important to forage for food like a common pigeon. No—Claude wanted fine dining. So he began his grand tour of the village.
First stop: the barbecue area. Claude swooped down dramatically, landing on a table full of crumbs left over from last night’s sausage sizzle. With great flair, he pecked at them like a food critic sampling canapés.
“CAW!” he announced loudly.
Which, in crow language, meant: Not bad, but lacking presentation.
Next he fluttered over to the community garden, where he attempted to sample a perfectly ripened tomato. Unfortunately, the gardener had installed a plastic owl. Claude took one look, screamed like a toddler, and flew off in a panic. Five minutes later he realised it was fake—but the embarrassment lingered.
Finally, Claude arrived at the café deck where residents often sat with scones. He landed beside a lovely old lady and stared at her with one beady black eye. She sighed, tore off a piece of her scone, and handed it over.
Claude snatched it, nodded respectfully, and strutted away as if he’d just closed a business deal.
By afternoon, Claude perched on his favourite rooftop, full belly, puffed feathers, surveying his kingdom.
He let out a satisfied “CAW!” which translated roughly to:
Another successful day of being fabulous.
And somewhere below, a resident muttered,
“That bird has more attitude than half the committee.”
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