“I feel like wringing their silly necks,” I wrote to R, them being a flock of silly pigeons that have decided to grace our verandahs. “Call your nearest lab assistant”, she wrote back. (She was a zoology student).
Last winter, a solitary pigeon sat immobile on the verandah rails for hours on end. I felt really sorry for this perhaps old and dying / seriously ill / injured bird. It was there for a couple of days before it left. I let it be, undisturbed.
That, I think, proved to my undoing. It was, I am convinced, a stool pigeon. It flew back and informed its clan who thus emboldened, moved in. Though, not all at once. Slowly, in ones and twos. Faint silhouettes, at first, on window ledges. Then a sudden rustle of wings along the glass panes, a careless feather here, a squawk there.
I should have nipped it in the bud then and there. But I didn’t. Not only had they moved in, but made their presence known.
I think, they meet every morning or at night and divided duties amongst themselves. You, you and you…shit on verandah no. 1, you two on 2. Hey you two love birds…you get to wake them (me and A) up by frenzied lovemaking on their air conditioners.
They choose their time well for this last activity. Always on a weekend. Always in the bedroom we happen to be sleeping in. (We have two and alternate depending upon the weather and or guests etc).
Not exactly the idyllic cooing wake up call…but the irritating metallic clang of their tiny feet on the aircon and general squawking early on a Sunday. How many time have I stumbled sleepily from my bed to the verandah, struggling to open the door which just happens to stick at the very moment...by then, the pigeons have finished their quickie in record time and are sitting beyond my reach, cooing maddeningly, and I think, smugly.
They haven’t spared my little garden either. I do so enjoy my first cup of tea, there, every morning. Will have to give it up soon. Bird shit all around. And different dimensions. As if they had a shitting contest the night before. You clean and hey presto, back again next morning. Each evening, when I return from work, I find feathers galore on our door mat. (None on our neighbours….and we DO clean our mats everyday much the same as them).
Their take over is now more or less complete. And how do I know this? Last night, I found ONE LARGE feather on our door mat.
I don’t think I am getting paranoid. I have seen a similar pattern earlier.
At our last residence, the pigeons had done the same things. First the silhouettes, the rustles, the bird shit. And one day, A and I returned from a weekend trip to find a funny smell. Couldn’t figure out what it was or where it was coming from. I cleaned whatever I could think of. The kitchen, bathrooms etc. But the smell didn’t go. And then my hands started smelling funny. Yukh. The tea, the food. And finally while I was taking a bath, it struck me and for a few heart stopping seconds, I actually thought, that the source of the smell was me: I was rotting.
THE WATER. “Go check the water tank,” I shouted to A. Sure enough, there was, a dead, decomposed Pigeon. Of all the tanks (there were 4), that dratted bird had to choose ours to bid adieu. And what an adieu. Yukh.
Can’t pack up and leave at dawn ala the Hitchcockian winged drama… (sill have quite a few months on the lease and this place is convenient). Suddenly, R’s suggestion seems infinitely sensible.