Thursday, April 15, 2010

A true aviator

Accept that some days you are the pigeon and some days the statue.
Dilbert [Scott Adams]

They bobble their heads along busy streets like little businessmen as if they belong there and have somewhere to be. They pick scraps from the ground the way models would scrap for cookie crumbs. They make poop-piles that would put your husband's beer-shits to shame.

One day, I might miss many of the things this country has to offer. One of those things: the pigeon.

I'm a big fan of pigeons. I think their ability to adapt to city life makes them an evolutionary champion. And even though people despise them for carrying disease, I say, "Hey, so do children." So look beyond the fact they could be weapons of mini-destruction and see them for what they really are: fluffy, hard working, skilled birds. I envy them for their ability to survive in the city. But the British pigeon has enchanted me! Their larger, fluffier bodies make them look almost like the Goose's little sister. Their keen senses have allowed for these larger, fatter, fish 'n' chips pigeons to thrive in England. Watching their round, corpulent bodies try to land on branches and wires is like watching a baby hippo dance as the branch sinks and then rebounds (slightly) under their weight.
Their plumage is beautiful: softer and fluffier looking than their grungy San Francisco counterparts. And I miss listening to the pigeon couple that had nested atop our chimney stack. Their coos were lovely, the melody almost hypnotic.

And so, this entry is dedicated to the British Pigeon. Even on the dreariest of days, watching them land on a branch or try to fly really makes me smile.

(I tried to take a picture of one but I haven't been fast enough with my camera! So instead, here's a lovely article with an adorable picture: Pigeons with backpacks!)

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