Christoph Niemann

I feed the birds outside my office, and I swear there's a crow that waits for me. Is that possible? Have I made the bird dependent on me? If I don't feed it, will it get mad?

If science has taught humanity anything, it's never to underestimate crows. In a study published in Nature Communications last fall, for example, researchers gave crows memory tests—the birds had to peck at images on a touchscreen—and found they were capable of a level of focus and cognitive flexibility that even humans can struggle with. And crows can, in fact, recognize and remember human faces: wildlife biologist John Marzluff and his colleagues have proven this, in part by trapping and handling crows—which pisses them off—while wearing caveman masks. When they later walked around in the masks, the crows cawed angrily.

These are shrewd and resilient birds, in other words. And they have fetching personalities. (Remember that viral video of a Russian crow sledding gleefully down a frosty sloped roof on a jar lid? I'd hang out with that crow!) What I'm saying is, you and this crow are in a relationship. What you're asking for, essentially, is relationship advice.

Will the crow be let down if you stop feeding it? Without a doubt. Breaking up is hard to do. Still, after running your predicament by Marzluff, the idea that the crow is "dependent" on you seems a little self-important. "The crow is certainly working the person," Marzluff said. "It will find another meal."

See, the crow has seduced you into a much more psychologically complicated relationship than you thought. In fact, Marzluff, with a colleague, has even worked up a typology of human crow-feeders. "Crow observers" take a detached, transactional view; "crow friends" say things like "Isabella scolded me when I got too close to her kids. Her anger has no bounds." (If it isn't obvious, Isabella is a crow.)

So, summing up: The bird's just not that into you. You're free to stop feeding it because the crow doesn't actually need you. But ask yourself, how much do you need the crow?

Every once in a while, when I send a text message, it can take minutes or even hours for it to be delivered. If the delay inconveniences someone—if I text to change a plan—is it my fault?

I kept calling, emailing, and texting people to help me answer your question, like the head of an SMS-centered startup, and a gentleman at Verizon whose phone made me listen to a few choruses of the Eagles' "Take It Easy."

Finally I reached John Marinho, vice president of cybersecurity and technology at the wireless industry trade group CTIA. No problem, Marinho said, it's all very straightforward. When you send a text, the network funnels it into the nearest SMS service center—a kind of server. It's stored there while the network locates the destination phone. The server is like a postman's shoulder bag; it holds all the texts while the network navigates the right route to deliver them. Delays occur mainly when the network can't find the other device or when the server gets congested. At peak times, the network can have so many messages stacked up that it takes time to work through them.

So it's not your fault. Except it's not really the network's fault either. I'd argue it's our fault. It's our fault for sending so many frivolous, compulsive texts that we risk burying the consequential ones in all that slop. The bored tween texting 14 of her friends from the passenger seat of her stepmother's Honda; the business traveler tying on a plastic bib at Red Lobster and shooting his brother-in-law a picture of his plate, captioned with a lobster emoji and a puffy thumbs-up. Or me, hounding wireless industry spokespeople for an immediate response for this column. People, please: Take it easy. Don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy.