The walking flock
Last week I was called out to rescue some "doves," but on arriving I was handed a box containing some rats with wings. I really wish these were metaphorical pigeons, but they are not. If they had bands on their feet they'd be racing pigeons with owners, but they don't. They are your genuine, feral rats with wings. Somewhere in their ancestry are domesicated breeds (if a pigeon can be called domesticated). One is a slightly off-white with pale brown feathers on the neck, and the other is pure white with black patches that glow an irridescant red in the sun. THe B&W
one has a dislocated wing, but the other is back to health after a week of R&R
Normally I'd euthanase the feral bastards as soon as I got home but Mum saw them.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"No you're not."
"But this one has a dislocated shoulder, and they're both ferals anyway."
"They're my birds."
Suddenly, in the space of three words, I found myself preparing to kill my Mum's pet pigeons.
So now the birds live in the back yard, walking around as they search for food, drinking from the fish pond and sleeping under the bbq table beside the dog kennels.The off-white one can fly, but always returns to its grounded mate. They are protected from cats by the dogs, and wander around the dogs without a care. It only took one "BADDOG!" from Mum to undo my dozens of "Skitch the rats!" attempts.
On the whole, I think I'd prefer metaphorical pigeons.
Polly vs the Walking Flock
I arrived home from work to find Polly sniffing at the black & white pigeon. The bird was on its back with its feet in the air. Polly was bumping the body with her nose. She looked happy to see me until I shoulted "POLLY YOU MONGREL! BADDOG! BADDOG! Ohh, you bloody... wait until I get hold of you!" The dog sank into the short grass and did a high-speed, belly-on-the-ground slink back to the kennel, where she hid under the blankets.
I sighed as I looked at the bird and quickly ran through the lies I would tell Mum about how the bird "just died" or something. I got a plastic bag to act as a body-bag in the bin, and reached for the bird.
The rat rolled over, stood up and walked out of reach. It growled at me* and wandered into the garden.
I hate these birds. Now I have to make Polly happy. Poor dog.