We walked along the path, like we always do. Rigby bolted up a small hill, just out of my sight, and a moment later, a large murder of crows rose angrily from where he’d disappeared.
Maybe fifteen of them – cawing loudly, angrily circling and swooping Rigby – FUCK OFF, DOG! – sending him running back to me.
For a moment, I thought it was over, but as we continued walking through the park, they followed both of us. Swooping, getting close, shouting at us.
It appears that we’ve accidentally made enemies of the crows in Golden Gate Park. And crows don’t forget faces.