“The magpies are back,” my dad said casually in conversation while we were driving somewhere. Or maybe he was in the middle of putting honey in his tea at my kitchen counter while the kids interrupted us endlessly?

The magpies are back.

“I saw that!” I replied. “Saw one the other day near the barn.” And that was sort of that — a nice little revelation among talk about work and ranch plans and weather. It was weeks ago, but when I opened my notes this morning, I saw that I wrote it down.

“The magpies are back.” I had put it in writing so I wouldn’t forget to think about it later.

What’s the significance of a wild black-and-white bird on our small family ranch?

I will tell you from my perspective, and that is simply that my dad used to tell me about them when I was growing up. The birds, known for their relationship with large animals, perch on the cattle and eat the grubs out of their backs. It was a little bit of a service to the cattle, and Dad remembers getting close to those birds hanging with the milk cows in the barn.

But it was there my memory sort of faded, so I had to give him a call. “I know you had a pet crow when you were a kid, but did you have a pet magpie, too?”

“Oh, yeah, I didn’t just have one, I had several,” he said on the other end of the phone (I do have to do some investigative journalism for this column occasionally).

From there, he went on to his memory of being a little boy watching their nests, and then, just before they learned to fly, climbing a tree (or, in some instances, hauling a ladder to reach the right branch) to get to the young birds.

“I would take one and raise it each spring. They would live in the barn and hop around drinking the milk we put out for the cats and eating the grain. I’d feed them scraps of bacon and meat and they would follow me,” he said. “One was named Earl — I don’t know why.”

I heard that story before as a kid, but it seemed to have faded, like the magpie, to the back of my memory until that resurrecting conversation. To me, the magpie was a magical creature of my upbringing — like a unicorn or Santa’s reindeer — and you only believed it existed because of the stories you were told. But when Dad was growing up, you could shoot the bird for a bounty, bring the legs in, and receive payment.

“People thought they would peck at cows’ brands and they didn’t like that. I don’t know if that was ever really an issue,” he said.

I suppose it says a lot about my dad, defending the bird and keeping them for pets instead.

I never saw a magpie on the ranch when I was growing up. Area ranchers at the time would use the insecticide Warbex to treat cattle for grubs and lice. They would pour the chemical on the backs of their cows with a big metal dipping ladle, which I remember well because I remember the smell. It was potent, and if you happened to get some on your hands, you would feel tingly, itchy effects for days. It did the job, I suppose, but it also killed the birds, magpies specifically, who would inevitably ingest the poison on their quest for those grubs coming out of the cows’ backs.

In time, the bird just disappeared from the area. Before I became a teenager, the practice of using Warbex went out of favor, with most countries restricting or banning its use by the 1990s.

“It’s been about 30 years since we’ve seen a magpie on the place,” Dad remarked. “But then, I suppose, when I was growing up, I never saw a wild turkey or a bald eagle on the place. There were no elk, no mountain lions, no mule deer. That’s five species right there that have made a comeback.”

We went on contemplating why. With no real scientific studies to back it, Dad recalled my grandpa claiming that most of these species disappeared after the Great Depression and it’s taken this long to bounce back. This long and more education. This long and better land management. This long and just a few months ago, my sister found a moose in her backyard munching by her trampoline.

This long and the magpies are back.

If I were a different kind of writer, I might be inclined to try to pull this all together as a sign from the universe that it’s all going to be OK in the end. That feels good, doesn’t it? Without all the middle parts where we perpetrated and witnessed the disappearance of …

The story of the magpie and my dad might also make some of you mad. Domesticating a wild thing, how could he? I can hear it now. But he was a kid. A kid living and working among the wildness of it all and wondering how it all worked. Maybe then, more than anything, the story of the magpie and my dad as a kid with a ladder and a plan and then a bird named Earl following him around the barnyard is more a tale in paying attention. Noticing. Learning.

“I see the partridges are back, too,” he said before we hung up. “I wonder why? Maybe easier winters …”