One of the greatest failures of my life to date (along with my sons’ shameful inability to eat apples correctly, down to the core) is my inability to attract a “crow bro”. That’s a corvid companion, and more and more people apparently have them, including Washington Post journalist Caitlin Gibson, who recently wrote about hers, Cormac, a charismatic fish crow with a taste for cashews.

It’s not a new phenomenon – Charles Dickens had a pet raven, Grip; Truman Capote had a crow called Lola – but thanks to CrowTok (a wholesome online enclave where people post enthusiastically about the exploits of their feathery familiars), there seem to be more corvid whisperers than ever. Yet however many unshelled peanuts (the recommended treat) I scatter, I can never seem to get a shred of attention from a black-feathered beauty.

Corvids are clever and sophisticated. They can spontaneously problem-solve, use tools, are capable of lying (and of working out when they’re being lied to), have complex responses to the deaths of their comrades, hold – and pass on – grudges, even hold down jobs (rooks in the Puy du Fou theme park pick up cigarette butts in return for food). They’re razor-sharp, and they don’t want to hang out with me. That stings.

I might not have a crow bro, but I do have a pigeon pal. Susan – a mysterious ringed white pigeon – arrived three years ago and never left. Does she bring me presents or perch on my shoulder? Absolutely not. Does she let me anywhere near her? Also no. She lives on our roof, shunning the two elaborate homes my husband built for her, shouting at us until I put out the specialist pigeon food I buy from an agricultural merchant a 20-minute drive away. Only then will she deign to descend to eat, under my servile, respectfully distant supervision (I have to stand guard or other pigeons chase her away). She pecks at the food, eyeing me warily, as if I’m about to put her in a pie, then leaves. No one would make a TikTok of this, but it’s a friendship of sorts, I like to think. Maybe we get the bird friends we deserve?

Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist