A crow story.
A high school friend lived on a small, complex farm. It had chickens, ducks, cows, goats, and all manner of berries and herbs as well as more normal garden stuff. And it was a haven for crows. He hated the crows, and would take his .22 out to kill them.
His mother told me that the crows had learned to avoid him, would stay either just out of sight or out of range. She insisted that was true, and rather than contradict her I chalked it up to an idiosyncracy.
She lived to 93, and always insisted the crows recognized Jim and avoided him. Until recently I really didn't believe her.