Spin-Doctoring a Pigeonholed Suburbanite
I hate pigeons. Doesn’t everybody? They’re pests. Rats with wings. And just because I raised one doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind about them.
My wife and I found one wandering around our third-floor balcony recently. He didn’t seem to be able to fly. His wings looked fine but my wife pointed out that he lacked a rudder because his tail was too short. We only took him in because he cheeped so pathetically. But this doesn’t mean I like them as a species.
Our condo association has spent a lot of money to have the things humanely removed from our roof. We have to. The uric acid in their droppings is highly corrosive. And being birds, they drop their dratted droppings everywhere: on our air-conditioning units, on the sides of our building and all over the roof.
I did some research, trying to find out what to feed Walter. (OK, so we named him. We had to call him something, didn’t we?) It turns out that technically, Walter’s not a pigeon. He’s a rock dove. But you can’t tell people you are poisoning doves or having doves removed from your building. You’ll be lynched. So we are getting rid of “pigeons.”
The problem, from the pest removal point of view, is that the little buggers think home is more important than food. They will fly for hours to find something to eat but they always come back to the roof or ledge where they were born. It’s kind of endearing if you think about it, sort of like feathered, guano-filled salmon. But it means that humanely removing them is not very useful and not very honest.
Pigeons have been doing this homing thing for thousands of years. When humans built the first temples to their gods, pigeons, I mean doves, came flapping in for a landing and began leaving their marks on Zeus’ head.
The ancients, lacking our modern pest removal philosophical sophistication, decided that having the birds cooing and reproducing all over the Parthenon was a sign of peace. When the Bible speaks of the dove returning to Noah’s ark with an olive branch, it really means a pigeon. Just like Walter.
Pigeons are not native to North America. But then, who is? It turns out the French first brought pigeons to Port Royal, in Nova Scotia, in 1606. Pigeons breed constantly in California. Worse yet, they’re monogamous for life and very good parents. Their nests may not amount to much but isn’t it more important that you love a child than raise it in a fancy house?
The female lays two eggs at a time. After 18 days they hatch into the oddest looking little beasts you have ever seen. Only a mother could love a baby bird. They are blind and naked, with stubby little arms and enormous round bottoms. They are completely helpless. Momma and poppa both feed the young something called “crop milk.” How’s that for family values? About a month later the babies are ready to face the world with all the tools they will ever have.
My wife and I have been trying to be good parents. We have been throwing Walter back and forth across our bedroom, to show him what his wings are for. But I suspect that Walter already knows. Wired into his brain is the knowledge that he can take to the air and soar and swoop for hours on end while I am tied to the Earth.
What is not wired into his head is that we are enemies. We have been looking for someplace to release Walter as soon as his tail grows long enough. We are drawn to a little park in Burbank, near a freeway exit. We like the park because of the trees.
But Walter needs a roof. Rock doves prefer flat surfaces over branches. I don’t like to think of Walter destroying someone else’s property or my own. But neither do I like to think of him eating poison or being shot.
I know that when most people look at Walter what they see is a pigeon and a pest. And I agree. I hate pigeons. But I am more ambivalent about doves.
