The End of Pigeon Season

Spring approaches, bringing an end to pigeon season on the Bluffs here south of downtown. All winter our community is harassed by hundreds of these stupid critters who, we surmise, find this area a most convivial winter encampment. They line the roof tops during the day, their pin heads poking up into the air. At night, they move to the trees. Each morning there are puddles of pigeon droppings on the side walks, bushes and lawns. Noise, like dogs barking, send them into the sky in an eerie flapping, gray mass. Think visions of Hitchcock's "The Birds" and you have the idea. Our dogs go crazy, barking more, adding to the chaos.

In January, we started to encounter wounded and dead pigeons on our dog walks. What was happening? Was it some disease? Our neighbor had the answer -- hawks, pigeons natural enemy. With so many in one place, the local hawks found it literally, a buffet delight. Every day five or six newly dead or nearly dead pigeons appeared in the grass and on the side walk. Some were partially eaten. Others were just downed. It was great sport for the hawks. The grounds maintenance crew had to switch from gathering leaves to gathering dead pigeons. Not a pretty picture.

With the pigeon crisis at an end, John and I are both relieved and looking forward to sprucing up the outside of the house. But before we could get started, we find ourselves grounded this week, flat on our backs, shot down by a nasty sinus and chest flu -- hacking, wheezing, aching, fever, afraid you are going to live flu. With both of us in misery, the dogs are grateful that John drags himself out of bed to get them walked. Never to loose an opportunity to snuggle, they are sleeping on the beds all the time, knowing we are too sick to protest. John took up residency in the guest room. I stayed in our bed. Good drugs, sleep, chicken soup, and luck are bringing up back to life. Hopefully, we are now ready for spring -- no pigeons and no flu.