What a disgrace—little piles everywhere. I spy bird poop all along the porch rail. The Mourning Doves look like they’re taking revenge for the tree-trimming which left them homeless this season. The word “pigeon” suits them better now.
Why can’t they build a little sanitary outnest somewhere? I suppose it’s impossible to porch train them.
It’s like they’re saying, “Fine. You took our nest. Here’s our poop.” Birdbrains. They’re living in the past.
Dozens of trees out there. Maybe it’s because I’m retiring and have extra time on my hands, but I find I’m getting just a little worked up over the pigeons. I’m beginning to wonder if Thurber got it wrong when he said:
“A pigeon looking is just a pigeon looking. When it comes to emotion, a fish, compared to a pigeon, is practically beside himself.”—James Thurber, from There’s an Owl in My Room, in The Thurber Carnival.
But a pigeon pooping is not just a pigeon pooping, especially if the pooping is being done on our back porch.
You can’t tell me there wasn’t a warning in that glare.
And so, they sit and evacuate their feathery bowels with impunity, every pile a fecal punctuation ending the declaration, “There, so there, and there too.”