Do you remember when I told you about how I was naked on my balcony with pigeon stuck to my tennis racket?
Well, as Karl Marx said, “History repeats itself; first as tragedy then as farce.”
And what a bloody farce it was.
But at least this time I was clothed. Thank heaven for small mercies.
It’s a tale as old as time, really. Man (or woman) against nature: Ahab and the whale; Santiago and the giant marlin; Atreyu and The Nothing; me and the pigeon.
Here’s the BG if you’ve forgotten the last chapter in my saga.
So, basically, this is what happened:
I was sitting at my desk, penning a lovely post to you fine people, perhaps my finest work to date, when I heard… not quite a crash and not quite a thud, but a sort of… clatter. A kerfuffle, if you will.
And this is what I discovered:
As you remember from the last time this happened, I freaked out.
Now look, just in case some real serious PETA members are reading, I should let you know that while I don’t like pigeons (in fact, I’d be fine if they were scrubbed from this earth) I would never be the hard-hearted person to hurt a pigeon.
But the pigeon had to go.
If you ever find yourself in an undesirable position such as mine, you should know I’ve found tennis rackets are best for pigeon-removal.
I retrieved mine from the closet.
As I approached, racket in hand, ready to scoop it over the balcony railing (oh, stop; it can fly) it ran away from me. Well, wobbled, really. And I kept telling it I was only there to help, but it kept running – wobbling – in the other direction, darting under tables and chairs and planter. Surprisingly agile, pigeons are.
So now you’re wondering why it didn’t just fly away. Excellent question.
My lanai is walled in glass. Birds don’t fully appreciate that. It did, once or twice, try to take flight, only to be thwarted by the invisible forcefield that is my lanai border. (Oh, stop; it merely pushed up against it, it didn’t fly full force. Sheesh.)
Hence me and the tennis racket trying to launch it into the great yonder.
Also, I should mention, I had other things to do that day than a spontaneous pigeon rescue mission.
So there I was chasing the pigeon to and fro across my lanai, when finally – finally! – it ran (wobbled) between the small space of the fence that connects my balcony to my neighbour’s. Surprisingly nimble, pigeons are.
That was perfect for me. I don’t really care for my neighbour, so I was fine with the pigeon now being her problem.
I went to the gym.
But you’ll never guess what.
The pigeon came back.
I returned from the gym to find it gurbling away, gazing at my view. I spied a fresh, liquid-y green-yellow token of its appreciation, and declared eviction time.
Taking up arms, I headed to the lanai determined to send the pigeon on its way.
After some more Dosey Doe-ing across the balcony, I finally had it cornered (oh, stop. You’ve got to be cruel to be kind. I was helping the little pain in the ass.) I slid my racket under its feet, as I learned from last time, they latch on between the netting. It did try to jump off, but to no avail. As I said, I was in the zone.
I determined my best course of action was to hold the racket at an angle and push it against the glass, sliding it upwards, so it sort of made a pigeon sandwich between the racket and the pane. With the bird slightly flattened whilst being dragged, I think the element of surprise was on my side, as it didn’t fight back. Perhaps too surprised, or humiliated, to do anything other than wait it out.
Anyway, I got it to the ledge, cleared for take off, and sort of use the racket as a launch pad to push it into the air. The fucking thing flew back! Racket still firmly in my grip, I shouted, Braveheart style, “oh no you don’t!” and volleyed it back out into the open, where it finally flew away, fully intact, and on its own steam.
Oh, stop. It wasn’t hurt. I was shook, but the air rat was fine.
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