In which a pigeon does well
Peck, peck.
The pigeon stepped closer, gobbling up in greedy gulps the breadcrumbs under the park bench. People milled around the large park, largely ignoring the pigeon and the rest of her kind.
Just as well. They were largely ignoring the people, too.
“I’m telling you, I can’t do this anymore!” A woman’s voice cut through the relative calm. Most of the people (and pigeons) could hear her clearly now. Her voice had grown frantic and high. “I can’t keep spending all of my time alone, while you drink and drink and drink!”
The man across from her, arms at his sides, answered in tight words. “I’m working to keep a roof over our heads. I just need to unwind before I come home. And you’re not alone. Aubrey is with you every day.”
“Oh yes,” the woman answered sarcastically. “Because Aubrey can help fill the silence. Because Aubrey can talk to me. Because Aubrey can make any difference at all.”
The man looked at their daughter, Aubrey. She had her back to them, and he could see no reaction from her.
“It’s not her fault she can’t hear. It’s not her fault you’re crazy,” the man said, closing his eyes.
The pigeon saw the girl’s face though. It was tight with worry and her hands were clenched in her lap. She pinched a piece of bread from her sandwich and tossed it gently to the pigeon. As her hand stretched out, the pigeon saw the dark colors of bruising along the girl’s thin arm.
The pigeon stepped carefully closer. Some children lured them close only to chase them away again. Not this one though. She looked lonely. Pigeons know about lonely. Pigeons know about missing their flock.
The pigeon picked up the bread in her mouth and peered at the child through one eye. The girl peered back.
Pigeons move a lot, but they often circle back to the same places. This day, the pigeon alighted softly on a window ledge far above the ground. It was a grey building, paler than her own feathers, and the windows were like large dark eyes peering out at the city. This building was familiar to her and she visited it often. A fire escape marred the peculiar face of the building and it was here that she lingered.
A familiar face was not long in meeting her. A tall man, with hair the exact same shade as the building. He smiled at her and pulled a handful of cereal from his pocket. Unlike most humans, this one never talked to her. Instead he whistled. Cheerful whistles that mimicked bird calls. It amounted to nonsense to the pigeon, but she found the easy familiarity soothing. She pecked at the cereal he’d scattered on the ledge and he settled on the lower rungs of the fire escape ladder.
She ate and he gazed out at the city, out at the sun setting behind the farthest reaches of the sky. Occasionally, he would move his hands in some gesture she didn’t understand. She was used to this. He never spoke with words. He spoke with his hands.
And he was lonely. Pigeons know about lonely. She sat with him a while longer, listening to his peculiar whistles and eating stale cereal.
Roosting, for a pigeon, is a serious matter. You have to be high enough to feel safe from the cats. They are always finding ways to climb into the heights where they have no business.
And a roost needs to be roomy. Plenty of space for a fat pigeon and her fat babies, when the time comes.
And for treasures. The pigeon had lined her prodigious roost with the knick-knacks and baubles she’d found on her many journeys into humankind. Her roost was nestled behind a gargoyle over a lawyer’s office. It was an ostentatious place surrounded by eateries and largely devoid of cats. The lawyer in questions was allergic, and wouldn’t tolerate even a stray in the alley. A good home for a pigeon, indeed.
This morning, the pigeon was awake before the sun. She winked open her dark eyes and opened her mouth with a bright trill. She was excited, because her nose told her what she’d already known.
It was cinnamon roll day at the bakery.
Of course, all bakeries make cinnamon rolls every day. But on cinnamon roll day, which came once a week, this bakery had them on special. Gobs and gobs of cinnamon rolls would be passing through the bakery and out into the world.
And wherever hungry humans passed, eating with their hands, there would always be crumbs for the pigeons to eat.
The pigeon could hardly contain her excitement, quickly diving from her perch behind the gargoyle and seeking out the rich smells of the bakery.
Arriving alongside her was a line of fellow pigeons. No matter. There would be enough to go around. These were her neighbors and friends. She happily shared the bounty with them.
Together, they each jostled each other for space in the crowded window, and along the top of the bakery’s signage. Soon there would be customers. Followed quickly by customers dropping things. Maybe, if they were lucky, a child would be among them that might drop an entire roll...
But it wasn’t meant to be. A short woman with pointy shoes marched in first, and out almost as fast. She held a roll between her hands, but her pouty lips smacked and she scarcely dropped anything at all.
Then an old man came, wide awake and cheerful, despite the early hour. He frowned at the birds, his cheerfulness evaporating.
“Shoo, pigeons!” he said, waving his hands. They fluttered and took wing briefly enough for him to pass by, then resettled in more or less the same place. He rolled his eyes, looking at them through the wide bakery window.
Next was another woman, this one dark and tired, by the looks of it. She moved slower, with heavy steps and slumped shoulders.
“What a long night!” she moaned, rubbing her head. “This job never gets any easier, I guess.”
The pigeon turned her head and watched the woman pass. She was heavy with the burdens of the world and looked ready to drop from it. Pigeons know about worrying. Sometimes they scarcely did anything else.
After a few moments and a few more customers, the dark woman passed out of the bakery. A small table and two chairs sat on the sidewalk, the woman sat down stiffly. She held a cinnamon roll in her hand limply, and turned her face to watch the sun come up between the buildings. The pigeon sidled up next to her, a quizzical look in her eye. Would this one share her cinnamon roll?
The woman noticed the pigeon and smiled, a weary one.
“Here you go, little bird. I guess you’re hungry, too.” She tore off a little piece of her roll and set it on the bench next to her. The pigeon stepped closer to take a nibble, then raised her head to consider the woman watching her again.
“Can you keep a secret, little bird?” the woman asked, her broad face peering down into the bird’s narrow one. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with this kid they handed me last night. I can’t find a home for her. I can’t find a single foster placement that will take her.”
The woman looked away, squinting at the sun. “And she’s a good kid. She deserves better.”
The pigeon took another bite of the food, her beak pecking it this way and that. She ruffled her feathers and cooed, an indignant sound.
“I know. It’s not fair. You’re right,” the woman said, nodding. “Just because that little girl is deaf.”
The pigeon’s head bobbed up, then down. She pecked at the food again. The woman ignored this, but sighed, her mind heavy with her own thoughts. Slowly the woman stood, and set down what was left of her cinnamon roll.
“You’re a good listener, little bird. I hope you enjoy that roll. It was pretty good.”
Then the woman turned and left the way she had come, slow deliberate steps that seemed no less burdened than when she’d arrived.
The pigeon turned her narrow face towards the place the woman had sat. A piece of paper laid there, glossy in the early morning light. The pigeon inspected it, looking at it with one eye, then the other. She plucked it up in her mouth. Yes, this would be a fine addition to her roost.
Days and nights, days and nights. They were often indistinguishable to the bird. She woke in the morning, sought her meals, a natural beggar of the urban landscape. And then when the sun left the sky, so did she, settling down in her comfy roost.
Another day began, as they all did. The sun was up and she ruffled her feathers, adjusting her light weight in her place. A few adjustments to her wings, a twitch of her neck, then she was gone again. This day brought her back to the park. When was the last time she had been there? Days? Weeks? It was hard to know for sure.
The pigeon landed on a picnic table. It was concrete and cold on her feet. She scratched at it, but there were no bugs, no crumbs from previous picnics.
A noise alerted her, her head snapping up quickly.
But no, it was just a human, caught up in his own affairs. He hadn’t seen her. The pigeon turned her head and looked the human over. They all resembled each other so closely, she rarely took the time to learn their peculiar faces. This one’s appearance tickled a memory in her mind though.
The father. The one with the angry mate and the little girl who had shared her sandwich with the pigeon.
The bird looked around. He was alone this time though. No child to share more treats with her.
The man sat with his head bowed, cradled heavily between his wide hands. He inspected his feet as if they were new. The pigeon looked down. They seemed like any other human feet she’d encountered. A stack of aluminum cans were scattered there, a pungent smell filling the air. With a shrug, she turned her attention to the grass. Full of bugs and worms and often, trash.
“What do I do now?” the man asked. He sobbed, then. It was a painful sound, causing the pigeon to look up. “What have I done?”
She’d seen this before. Humans often did this. They sat alone and cried. She understood. Pigeons were rarely far from each other. Pigeons know about missing your flock.
Two more cinnamon roll days came and went, but she did not see the dark woman again. However, the pigeon saw the man in the gray building three more times. She was headed there now, flying high between the buildings. The fire escape came up quickly below her. She spread her wings, extended her feet, and with a soft thud, landed easily on her customary ledge.
She could just make out the man through the window, his back turned to her. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, a large square of white propped up in front of him. The pigeon turned her head. Art, she’d heard it called. Humans seemed fascinated with it. She liked the statuary in the park and the lights that humans seemed to string up everywhere. Was that art?
She didn’t know about art. However, pigeons understand collecting pretty bric-a-brac for a roost.
A flap of her wings and a loud call didn’t rouse the man’s attention. Then she remembered. This one didn’t use words. Maybe he didn’t hear? She tapped her beak on the glass, still no response. It reminded her bird brain of the child in the park.
Then the man turned, his eyes distant. Quickly they lighted on the bird’s small frame. A second pigeon was just coming to land on the handrail when he pushed open his window and slipped out onto the fire escape. Smiling, he whistled at the birds.
If pigeons could smile, they would have done so. His cheery smiles and pockets full of old cereal certainly filled them with joy. The pigeon pecked at her bounty where he’d laid it on the ledge. He turned, scattering more for her fellow.
The pigeons ate happily, quick pecks and quiet coos. Meanwhile, the man turned and leaned on the rail. He looked out at the horizon, beyond the city buildings, and sighed. It was a heavy sound and the other pigeon fluttered a moment at its suddenness.
The man looked at the birds, a soft smile that seemed more sad than anything. The pigeons looked at each other. Loneliness. This was loneliness. He needed another human to share his roost with. A companion, a fellow, a flock. But who? Pigeons know about loneliness, but they don’t know about finding human companions.
Then one day it happened. The pigeon was winging her way over the city, between haunts, when she spotted the dark woman on the sidewalk below. Angling her wings, she dipped low and perched nearby, watching the woman’s slow progress down the street. The woman was frowning this time, dragging a girl behind her.
If pigeons could frown, she would have done so now. The dark woman had seemed so kind before. What had her so cross now? The pigeon spread her wings and glided even closer, settling on a lamppost.
“I have to find someone who you can talk to,” the dark woman was saying, gesturing wildly. The girl was frowning hard, her shoulders hunched up to her ears. Her face was so creased with frustration that the pigeon almost didn’t recognize her. Almost.
It was the girl from the park. Aubrey.
“Talk to,” the woman said again, pointing to her lips. The girl continued to frown. “Someone who knows sign language.”
The girl jerked her hand away from the older woman, and made a quick, short gesture with her hands.
“Home. I know you want to go home,” the woman answered. “You know I can’t take you back there.”
Another quick gesture, just as angry.
“A group home. It’s all I can find.”
Then the anger and frustration drained out of the girl’s face to be quickly replaced by fear. Tears filled her eyes, and she wiped at them quickly.
The woman’s face softened again, and she put a hand to the girl’s shoulder.
“I don’t like it either. I’m so sorry, Aubrey. There’s just nowhere else.”
The pigeon knew what she had to do. She took flight, winging hard for her roost.
A quick flight to the roost and another speedy trip across the city and she was frantically calling out at the man’s ledge, her wings beating the glass. The man saw her quickly, a frown on his face. He knew the pigeons, knew their usual behavior. He knew something was wrong. Soon his movements were leading him out onto the fire escape.
Instead of greeting her with his usual cheery smiles and whistling, he was frowning, his hands making those same quick gestures she’d seen the girl make. The pigeon set the glossy paper in front of her, nudging it with her beak at the man.
He looked down at the paper between them, a frown creasing his face.
She nudged it again and hopped back. Take it, she willed him to understand.
Slowly the man reached forward and looked at it. It was small, fitting well inside his palm. His eyes read the words slowly. It wasn’t, as she knew, just a bauble to a human. It was important.
The man looked at her, then back at the paper. She called out, an urgent noise. Did he know what to do? Had she done well?
More days and nights passed. The pigeon’s frantic worry had abated. The humans would sort themselves out. She’d quickly settled into her old routine, the park, the man’s house, the bakery. She hadn’t seen the dark woman again, or the girl Aubrey. She hadn’t seen the father in the park either, though she hadn’t really wanted to see him again. No crumbs to be had from a man who only cries and drinks.
Then one day she’d gone to visit the man and he wasn’t there. She pecked at the glass. No response. Turning her head, she peered through the window with one eye and saw only empty space. That white square now held an image.
A bird in flight.
A pigeon.
She blinked, turning her head to view it with her other eye. Yes, it was her, the paper in her mouth. If pigeons could smile, she would have done so then.
Nature asserts a rhythm on all the earth’s creatures, and pigeons are no different. It was roosting time. She took her mate, laid her eggs, and roosted. In time they hatched, grew and set off on their own journeys. She wondered where they would end up. Would they be put into an image by a man like she had? The image, held tightly in the grip of her mind, still filled her with pride.
So it was, when she first left her empty nest to resettle in her old beggar ways that she first visited the grey-haired man in the grey building. But as soon as the fire escape was in view, she knew things were different.
The man was not alone.
He was already on the fire escape, his head thrown back in soft laughter. A child sat beside him, her own face lit up with amusement. Between them, their hands flew around, gesturing quickly.
The pigeon flew on by, her wings spreading wide to make the turn. The man’s sharp eye caught her movement though. He waved, his same cheerful smile there on his face.
The pigeon took a turn and looped back to the fire escape. With a few little flaps, she alighted on her old ledge. The man was there with his pocketful of stale cereal again, only now the girl was with him, offering her own handful of food as well.
His smile never left his face, while he gestured to the girl. And then, as if telling a story all his own, he pulled that same glossy paper from another pocket. It was no longer glossy, but faded and bent. The girl’s eyes widened, and she smiled. The pigeon had done well after all.
Family. This was family. Pigeons know about family, too.
Has an animal ever played a role in changing your life? I'd love to hear about it down in the comments! And as always, thank you for reading and sharing!