Pet Lovers
Feathered Friends or Foes
Feathered Friends or Foe?
Robin Hoselton
The gang of hoodlums trespassing in the back yard infuriated me. I banged on the
kitchen window and yelled, “Get outta here, you scum!”
My significant other strode into the kitchen and peered through the window.
“I know I locked the back gate. Who was out there,” he asked?
“Those damn pigeons were at the bird feeder again,” I groused.
“You made all that commotion and nearly broke the window just to scare some birds? I thought we were having a home invasion,” he said.
“It is an invasion,” I said.
In a snit, I resumed making myself a cup of coffee and slammed the cupboard door.
“I put out that seed for the songbirds, not for those trashy ruffians,” I said.
“They’re hungry, too, so what if they eat a little seed,” he asked?
“A little seed, I countered. Those big lugs gobble it up like it’s their last meal and then I run out of it sooner and have to buy more.”
“So?”
“So I don’t have a job like you. Social Security doesn’t cover living expenses plus tons of seed. Right now there’s 8 of those flying vermin but they’ll reproduce to 16 and they’ll tell all their friends and then there’ll be 32 and I’ll become a bag lady.”
“Do you want me to get a gun and shoot them?”
“No, of course not.”
“Want me to put out poison?”
My mouth dropped open, rendering me speechless for a few seconds.
“What a horrible suggestion. And what about the other birds or the squirrels and cats that might get into it?”
He shrugged. “I was just offering solutions. For someone who hates pigeons so much, you’re sure defending their right to life. I don’t understand why they raise your blood pressure. You don’t mind the doves and blue jays. Pigeons can’t help it if God made them bigger. Besides, they have more interesting colors and patterns.”
Unable to think of a comeback, I rolled my eyes and left the room, but I pondered his comments. About twice a year, I concede that I’m wrong and he’s right. This might be one of those times.
God, Mother Nature, or whatever spiritual being one believes in, did paint with a gorgeous palette of colors and patterns when she created pigeons. I smiled, visualizing flirtatious Fanny, the pretty rust and cream-colored hen who waggles her tail for every lustful male in the flock. Another I call Acrobat Annie. She balances upside down on the feeder ledge while fluttering her wings to dislodge the seed for her cohorts on the ground. The largest cock I nicknamed Strutter because he seems to delight in showing off his majestic iridescent collar.
Belatedly, I realized that I hadn’t been complaining about anonymous interlopers after all. By naming them, I had accepted them into my garden. I resolved to end my discrimination and alleviate the stress on my kitchen window. Now when the pigeons assemble on the telephone wire to await the ritual filling of the bird feeder, I worry if Fred and Ethel aren’t among them.
I guess I’ll use the economic stimulus money to fund my bird seed purchases. After that, well, I suppose I could cut back on my chocolate. Sigh…
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