So I wake up this morning and there’s a pigeon walking around on my deck. It won’t fly away when I try scare tactics. It flaps around, but can’t seem to achieve liftoff. It looks tired, perhaps injured. I call Brendan.
I’m not feeling hugely sympathetic toward this creature. I’m also not feeling ready to put my fingers all over a flapping, possibly injured bird first thing in the morning. I want the pigeon gone. I want it to stop shitting all over the place. But I don’t want to get my hands dirty, so to speak. I’m a heartless wimp.
I figure Brendan will be both heartless and ready to get his hands dirty. I think: Perhaps he’ll make a lunch of it. You know: snap the pigeon’s neck, pluck off its feathers, garnish with a sprig of parsley.
Or, at the very least, I figure Brendan will be supportive of getting this nonflying pigeon off of my deck somehow—either by carrying it down to the street for me or by tossing it over the side and letting it sink or fly, so to speak.
Harsh, I know. But the urban jungle is harsh. What else am I going to do? Nurse it back to health?
This, it turns out, is exactly what Brendan recommends. This man, who once stalked 12th Avenue in search of pigeon prey, now tells me to fetch a cardboard box and some breadcrumbs so that he can make a nest for my weakly flapping house guest.
How could I not comply? The urban hunter was more sympathetic than I was. I felt ashamed.
The pigeon gets 24 hours.
Just don't name it. Once you've done that, you've got yourself a pet.