I walked into my kitchen this morning, glanced out the window, and saw pigeons everywhere. There were pigeons on my windowsill and the neighbor’s. There were pigeons on my balcony and the fire escape. There were even pigeons sitting on the edge of the garage. There were pigeons all over the place, their little beady eyes watching as I moved around the kitchen packing my lunch, and I knew that they had come for me.
You see, yesterday I’d committed the ultimate pigeon insult—I’d taken an egg from a nest.
My nest robbing was a preemptive strike as a pigeon couple had finally succeeded in building a viable nest on my kitchen windowsill. Before the birds had always contented themselves with turning my balcony into a pigeon birthing community (making it impossible for me to use it as well as stinking up my office with the odor of pigeon droppings), but my sill with its downward slope had remained safe. This safety allowed me a window I could open in the summer, a way to create a cross breeze in my apartment.
Not anymore. Not with a permanent pigeon occupant—and the bird would be permanent occupant. If I’ve learned anything about pigeons and pigeon reproduction in the last few years of the balcony occupation, it is that pigeons breed year around.
Oh yeah, and they are not above using the young from one next to incubate the eggs of the next.
Baby machines, I tell you.
I’d had enough. It was time to make a pre-emptive strike. It was time to make sure that no baby pigeons started their lives on my windowsill. So I popped open the window, shoed away mama pigeon, and stole her egg (which went immediately into the trash). Sure I felt bad; I’m not someone that harms another animal very easily, but it had to be done. It was my stand against those feathered invaders.
And that stand was why there was a hit squad of said invaders waiting for me to leave for the garage at 6 am in the morning.
I made it through safely. No scratches or pecking or pigeon poop bombs. So maybe it was just a show of numbers, an empty threat.
Or maybe they were trying to lull me into a sense of complicity. Being all, “Look, silly girl, we’re just hanging. Just hanging out doing nothing and ignoring you. You won’t come to any harm today…but tomorrow? When our numbers double or triple? When you’re not paying attention? Oh yes, then…” [cue evil bird chirp/cackle]
Of course, there is one more option, one that cannot be ignored. You know, the one where I admit that I have an overactive imagination when I’m sleepy and am prone to hyperbole. That could totally be what’s going on here.
But if Hitchcock has taught me nothing else, it is that just as you write it all off as coincidence they will choose that moment to attack.
Know any books where nature has gotten its revenge in this manner?
P.S. I’m totally blaming the birds on why I didn’t post yesterday despite the fact I had the legitimate excuse of actually having to do some work at work. This morning that is obviously not the case as today’s post was brought to you by the fact that I’m only getting calls from people who aren’t eligible to bet with us.