We appear to have shed our unwelcome, beady-eyed harbinger of doom, at least temporarily. Whilst on the phone with my friend Sarah yesterday, I explained my being-held-hostage-by-a-bird dilemma, and she was unimpressed by my overly girlish aversion to confronting my feathered foe. She shamed/coaxed me into taking back my territory by shooing the pigeon off of the porch with a broom. She reassured me that the pigeon's initial flappy descent onto my head was likely a fluke, and the worst case scenario about confronting it was that it might not fear me enough to vacate the porch. So I took it on, Max weeping piteously behind me because I categorically refused to let him help. I brandished my broom at the pigeon, who hooted derisively and scooted over behind the toy bin. Hesitantly, driven on only by my deep desire to not be called a wimp by Sarah (who was still on the phone with me at the time), I prodded the toy bin with the broom, shifting it several inches. The bird's head appeared around the side of the bin, its beady, flames-of-hell-colored eye upon me. "Its watching me", I whispered to Sarah. And then I said "AAARRRGGGHHH!!!" in a much louder voice, as the pigeon rose into the air, flapped directly towards me for a pace or two, and then flew away, saying, "Nevermore!" once more for luck over its shoulder. Apparently, a relaxing night spent pooping on everything that dwells on our porch was all that the pigeon needed in order to heal and restore its powers of flight. Or it was faking injury the whole time. What a punk.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
You Can Call Me Pigeon Slayer
We appear to have shed our unwelcome, beady-eyed harbinger of doom, at least temporarily. Whilst on the phone with my friend Sarah yesterday, I explained my being-held-hostage-by-a-bird dilemma, and she was unimpressed by my overly girlish aversion to confronting my feathered foe. She shamed/coaxed me into taking back my territory by shooing the pigeon off of the porch with a broom. She reassured me that the pigeon's initial flappy descent onto my head was likely a fluke, and the worst case scenario about confronting it was that it might not fear me enough to vacate the porch. So I took it on, Max weeping piteously behind me because I categorically refused to let him help. I brandished my broom at the pigeon, who hooted derisively and scooted over behind the toy bin. Hesitantly, driven on only by my deep desire to not be called a wimp by Sarah (who was still on the phone with me at the time), I prodded the toy bin with the broom, shifting it several inches. The bird's head appeared around the side of the bin, its beady, flames-of-hell-colored eye upon me. "Its watching me", I whispered to Sarah. And then I said "AAARRRGGGHHH!!!" in a much louder voice, as the pigeon rose into the air, flapped directly towards me for a pace or two, and then flew away, saying, "Nevermore!" once more for luck over its shoulder. Apparently, a relaxing night spent pooping on everything that dwells on our porch was all that the pigeon needed in order to heal and restore its powers of flight. Or it was faking injury the whole time. What a punk.
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5 comments:
Thanks for the shout out, Chelsa. Finally, I make my mark on the blogging world.
Yes, you are now officially famous. You will be playing the role of the tough-as-nails drill seargent, forcing Our Heroine to confront her feathery demons.
congratulations on reclaiming your territory. be sure to let us know if your pigeon-friend misses you so much that it returns.
i think you should buy a cage and make it a pet, its very pretty and maybe you can teach it to talk as well. Lets face it Chelsa its adopted you lol
Sadly, the pigeon has not returned, so the opportunity to make it my devoted pet has passed. It has left behind a great deal of pigeon poop, however, so at least we have a memento.
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