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Someone in my home has been stealing from me. It’s only been small things so far: a little loose change; a silver ring; a spare set of house keys; nothing irreplaceable. The culprit’s name is Benzene and he is, literally, a thieving magpie. My sister-in-law found him on an industrial estate in Bermondsey a few months ago: a helpless, abandoned little ball of fluff with a stubby beak and clever black eyes. He needed a home and a devoted carer to nurse him to health. My partner, Janina, and I took him in without question. With him, chaos flew into our life.

At six in the morning he would escape his box in the corner of our room, jump into bed, and scream in my face until I got up and made him some breakfast. For what felt like weeks he needed feeding every half hour.

Mealtimes were messy and loud. As soon as he learnt I was good for it, he would open his throat wide and shriek for mushed-up dog biscuits, mincemeat, and disgusting grubs whenever he saw me coming. It didn’t help that his food kept escaping. Our housemate was very brave about the live mealworms that wriggled their way into the most unexpected places.

Like a tiny human, he learnt about the world by tearing it apart. He used his newfound strength and his sharp little beak to educate himself about books, laptop chargers, and precious bonsai trees. Living, as we did then, under the reign of our housemate’s two cats, the only safe place for him was our bedroom. Within days the floor was covered in a Pollock-esque carpet of shredded paper and spattered bird crap. It’s hard to imagine how the landlord of our rented Hackney flat would have reacted if he’d decided to stop by.

Unlike babies, magpies don’t come with manuals. This one seemed to demand constant attention. Working from home, it was hard to even read an email, never mind actually sit down to write. ‘Is this normal?’ I wondered, as he clambered up onto my head and took a great, greasy white dump in my hair. Magpie fanciers I found online reassured me that it was. ‘Get him an iPad,’ advised one.

Somehow, despite all the mess, that magpie stole our hearts. It’s a hard thing to explain. It probably helps that he’s cute: he cheeps and chirps and takes little naps in the nape of my neck. But it’s his naughty side I find most charming. He hides my glasses, snatches food from my plate, and openly covets my wedding ring. Once, when he managed to get hold of it, he ran around in circles, shrieking with delight. Who knew an animal could take such obvious pleasure from mischief?

Magpies generally get pretty bad press. They’re said to bring bad luck, murder songbirds and, according to legend, refused to mourn for Christ. They are the devil’s own bird. Even my grandmother — no friend of Jesus — has been known to take pot shots at them with a rifle. But now after centuries of human hostility, it seems they are finally being let in from the cold. It was refreshing to read recent reports of Penguin Bloom, ‘the magpie that saved a family’.

Penguin tumbled from her nest a few months after Sam Bloom, a mother-of-three from Sydney, had a fall that left her paralysed and deeply depressed. Having an affectionate, mischievous and highly intelligent magpie to care for was like therapy for the whole family. Their uplifting story went viral; it was one for joy. ‘She’d make us laugh,’ Bloom told the BBC.

Little wonder: magpies are hysterical. They love to play, live to steal and have a wicked sense of humour. As I type, mine is peeping out from behind my laptop with a little red ball clenched in his beak. He’s longing for a game of fetch, or chase, and if he doesn’t get it he’ll root around among my things until he finds something I will run after him for. USB sticks and credit cards are, he has discovered, very effective human bait.

Likewise, that a magpie could help heal a family’s trauma comes as no surprise. They’re miraculously clever birds. Indeed, studies suggest they have intellects on par with primates. As members of the corvid family, which includes crows, rooks and ravens, they are sometimes referred to as ‘feathered apes’.

Some corvids can make and use tools. Others are capable of remembering the faces of humans who have bothered them for years after the event. Certain members of the family are even said to possess a ‘theory of mind’, a trait previously thought to be unique to humans.

We knew much of this when we took Benzene into our flat in early May. Yet, somehow, his intelligence still came as a surprise. This baby magpie, tiny though he may have been, was very much like a human toddler, albeit a kleptomaniac toddler with wings and claws.

And we’re not alone — magpies seem to be having a bit of a moment. Aside from Penguin Bloom, with her media appearances, best-selling picture book and Instagram fame, the birds are everywhere. A tame magpie recently showed up in Regent’s Park and started joining family picnics. And just the other week, a friend in Florence was shocked and delighted when one flew in through her window and sat on her sofa to watch TV. The next day, he escorted her to work. His name is ‘Sque Sque’, and he has a small following online.

After Benzene learnt to fly, I took him to my parents’ Sussex farm. It was time for him to soar free and befriend his own kind. Magpies are smart and fascinating creatures. Keeping one prisoner didn’t sit well. I felt like Baloo escorting Mowgli to the edge of the village: sad but certain it was the right thing to do.

Benzene enjoyed his rural summer. He loved the chickens, the fruit trees and the flowerbeds. The opportunities for crime were endless: he tossed fragments of tiles from the roof, stuck his beak into wasps’ nests and jammed up a concert piano with rotting bits of meat. Somehow he could do no wrong. The whole family had fallen in love with him, too.

While he was there, the farm was a hive of activity. Janina and I got married in one of the fields for a start. We hoped Benzene might forge new bonds, too. It wasn’t meant to be. Every time the wild magpies came calling, he would run to the nearest human. I can’t pretend I wasn’t a little bit pleased. ‘He loves us, too!’ I thought at the time.

After a month, we brought him back to London. We’ve moved into a bird-friendly house south of the river, without cats, and built him an aviary outside. We’ll still be taking him to the countryside from time to time just in case, like Penguin Bloom, he eventually wants to flap off. For now he seems happy enough. He’s less of a manic magpie these days. He’s calmer and more at peace with the world. But who knows? He could just be biding his time. Perhaps one day he’ll be gone — and so will my wedding ring.

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