My first thought when the bird landed on my deck was, “Oh no, a PIGEON!!” No offence to pigeon-lovers, but having worked decades downtown, I felt that pigeons were a nuisance – at best. Feathered B-52s with an organic liquid payload that wreaked havoc on hairdos and newly dry-cleaned suits. “Rats with wings,” as they were, perhaps unfairly, called. And where there is one pigeon, there are usually more to come. I envisioned my backyard becoming a feeding ground. How long before grandmothers were bringing toddlers by with large bags of breadcrumbs, and old Russian men with bushy eyebrows and dressed in cardigans were setting up chess boards outside my kitchen window?
Upon second look, this pigeon seemed different, though. Sleeker, prettier. Athletic, even. And there was a numbered band on its leg. I took a photo and a few key search words later, I discovered this was no ordinary flying rat. It was a racing pigeon. From a club in Innisfil. This little guy had come a long way. After going down an online pigeonhole for several hours, I soon knew enough about pigeon racing to hold my own in a bar debate in Belgium (where the sport began in the 1800s). An email to the club found me its “owner.” Or would that be pigeon jockey? Just as I was mentally building a pigeon coup in my backyard to house my new-found avian Olympian, he flew off.
And so began a strange couple of weeks of bird-brained behaviour. Maybe it was because it was spring, or perhaps I just became more attuned to birds in general. Not unlike when I bought the obscure and unforgettable 1972 Ford Cortina; suddenly there were dozens of other brilliant drivers on the road who valued underpowered bland design and never-ending electrical issues. For instance, there was Leaside’s resident red-tailed hawk that chased a squirrel across my street into a hedge where it then became entangled, allowing the squirrel to make its escape by jumping into the engine compartment of a neighbour’s car.
There were the four crows that I’m sure are the same four crows that visit us every year – spring and fall – that somehow found the robin’s nest above my porch light. Despite repeated early morning defences with my broom-sword, the crows eventually won and my three-year relationship with Robbie the robin ended. (Insert the too-easy reference to a murder of crows, here.)
And finally, the cardinal. As I drove down Bessborough one day, I saw a cardinal fly across the street in front of me and without warning explode like a bath bomb going super nova. In what seemed like slow motion, a small falcon emerged Concorde-like from a cloud of pink and red fluff. It was as oddly beautiful as it was shocking.
My extraordinary bird week ended with an email from the pigeon jockey: “I will arrange pickup if you are able to catch it.” I replied, “How do you propose I catch it…?” I left out the last part I had written in my mind – “…given that my falcon has already eaten.”
This article was guest contributed by David Crichton.
