loracs | (no subject)

Warning: There will be a shifting into Pigeon Personification Mode during this otherwise observational documentation.

Crossing the City Center Plaza last week, the wind pushed at my back and the smell of the early morning mist still lingered. It was chilly, but I found a sunny bench with a windbreak, so I decided to sit and read for a while. I had about 25 minutes before I was due back at work. A couple of hours earlier, at the height of lunch hour, the plaza had been full of people, most eating. The combination of a wide-open space, people, and food can only mean one thing; pigeons; lots of pigeons. We are close enough to the ocean we often get seagulls too. On this day, whether because of the late hour or because it was so windy, the plaza was abandoned to the smaller “rats with wings.”

My father raised pigeons for food and entertainment. About half our pigeons were Tumblers. They probably have another name, but that’s all I know them by. When flying within hearing range, my father would loudly clap his hands and the pigeons would close their wings and “tumble” in free fall for several seconds. I just assumed my father had trained them, but I never saw him work with them as we did with the dogs. Moreover, generation after generation of Tumblers knew this “trick.” Now, I suspect it was just a wired-in response to the noise. Maybe it was a way to escape an air attack. Or maybe it was a fear response. In either case, as a young kid I thought this was the greatest fun. I would clap and clap, but it was never loud enough. You needed big adult hands and the power behind them. Whenever we had company, my father would say “Go chase the Tumblers out of the coop” and then we’d all stand, hands shielding our eyes against the sun, as we watched the air show.

In the spring/early summer, when our pigeon population grew too large, we’d have squab for dinner. My mother would bitch and moan about how small the young birds were “All you can eat is the breast – all this work for these little bitty breasts.” Yet, when cooked in a tomato sauce and spooned over pasta, with the little breasts on the side, it was a very delicious meal. Gamier than chicken, but much less than duck or goose, they were little jewels of pigeonly delight.

Watching the pigeons today, I found myself immersed in these memories. I hadn’t really looked at city pigeons before. Oh, a momentary gasp as dozens took flight in front of me perhaps, or a cursed shout when they left their little white presents all over my van, but mostly I ignored them. As I was reading, out of the corner of my eye I saw a strange movement. Two pigeons (I’ll call them Gracie and George) were walking on the cement planter about 10 feet away. Well, walking wasn’t actually what Gracie was doing. She’d lost both her feet, her legs ended in little knobs. It may have been congenital or from an injury. To keep pigeons off building, sharp wire spikes are mounted on ledges. I read many years ago that a large number of birds get punctures on their feet, and with very little blood supply in that area, they are infected easily. If they survive, their feet are often left disfigured. With the exception of her gambling gate, Gracie was a very ordinary drab gray female bird. George, on the other hand, was a very handsome specimen, complete with fine iridescent feathers from his neck to mid-body. He was larger than most of the other males I could see and he had a most “manly” bird strut.

Most of the pigeons were on the plaza, but Gracie and George stayed in the planter. Perhaps they found an especially rich source of bugs, rich enough they ignored the flurry of their fellow pigeons only 10 feet away attacking ½ a pizza. Only moments earlier, a woman with a furtive look about, dumped it on the ground. Immediately dozens of pigeons descended, fighting for a bite. Tomato sauce smeared on the cement, created an illusion of a blood bath. Birds took off with a bit of crust, trailing a string of cheese, only to land a few feet away to defend their bounty from those pigeons not able or willing to take contest in the main pizza battle.

Finally, all this activity caught Gracie’s attention. She stood on the ledge of the planter, head cocked, following the in and out dance of the pizza pigeons. George took little note of them, instead all his attention was on Gracie. She’d try inching further down the planter, towards the pizza, but George stood firmly in her way. She’d hop into the planter, pick at the soil a time or two, and then back onto the ledge. Each time, George placed himself between her and the feeding frenzy. Hopping in and out, she managed to move a few feet closer to the food. Finally, with one awkward hop, she launched herself off the planter and onto the plaza. Gambling as quickly as she could on her two knobs, she aimed for the pizza, but just as quickly and with an economy of movement, George landed gracefully in front of her.

No longer isolated, Gracie and George were now in the middle of 40 or more pigeons. Once again, it became a “George blockade,” but this blockade was even more challenging. No longer was he just trying to keep her away from the pizza, but every pigeon (male and female) on the concourse. Step within a foot of Gracie and George was in their face, puffing up and forcing them back. Had Gracie been more cooperative, like a young child hiding behind a parent’s leg, George would have been quite successful; such was his aggressive, macho stance. Instead, Gracie was more like a child determined to out run, out maneuver her parent. This was too much for George. Somewhere in that tiny brain, he knew he had to change tactics. If one cannot keep a decent perimeter between his beloved/mate/captive, then he must push her out of the crowded space. He turned his attention, with all his puffy self, towards Gracie and like a good lineman, he anticipated every bob and weave she attempted, herding her out of the pack.

Once he had her 10 feet away from all other pigeons, he settled down. His feathers smoothed and collapsed, leaving a much smaller George to stand between Gracie and the normal pigeon world. Defeated, she turned her back to George and hobbled, hopped, and spreading her wings, managed to gather enough lift to get into the air. With complete ease, George took off after her. They circled the plaza a few times before landing on the planter where they originally caught my eye. Once more, Gracie turned her attention to the soil. This time George joined her, pecking and scratching at the earth.

I’ve seen birds fight and preen for the attention of a possible mate. I’ve seen bonded pairs stay close in crowded space. I’ve never seen a male bird so determined and precise in dominating (protecting?) a female, esp. without attempting to mate with her. George was just content to keep Gracie isolated. Maybe George was concerned with Gracie’s diet and only wanted her to eat natural food and not people’s garbage leftovers. I’m sure a bird expert could explain this behavior without resorting to my anthropomorphized description.