The Pigeon

I hate birds.

Not a mild dislike of pigeons, or faint annoyance with seagulls. I hate any and all winged bird. My hatred of birds is one of my defining characteristics, like my curly hair and the finger waggle that comes out when I’ve had too much to drink.

I hate birds for a number of reasons: they have crafty little eyes, reptilian brains, razor sharp beaks, jagged claws and the ability to swoop down and gauge your eyes out if they so choose. The fact that they haven’t so chosen is no guarantee that they won’t one day change their minds. Then we’re all going to be running around with great gaping, bleeding holes where our eyes should be. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

People have often mocked me for not liking birds. When running with Kathryn she would warn me miles before we neared one, “Goose coming up, Amy. Goose coming up.” Inevitably, I’d still be skittish when we got up to the bird – geese are no laughing matter… They’ll chase you and peck at your legs. And she’d laugh and laugh as I tripped over myself to flee them.

Andrew also thinks this phobia hilarious and has taken photographs of me looking terrified of pigeons in St. Mark’s Square in Venice, and petrified of peacock’s in Hobart Tasmania.

People often try to talk me out of my well-researched concerns. “Birds are harmless!” they say. “They’re cute!” they exclaim.

Those people are crazy.

My hatred and fear of the bird can be traced back, as all of my neuroses can, to my childhood. We lived in a big, draughty farm house with three chimneys, and lots of comings and goings. This meant that occasionally a bird would get into the house. Anyone who has tried to shoo one of these panic-crazed, flapping, swooping monsters from their home, knows the terror of which I speak.

I have a particularly vivid memory of being about 13 and being home alone. Getting the house to myself was a rare treat, and one to be treasured. I can’t remember what I was doing, but probably it was rocking out to the “Dirty Dancing” soundtrack or hemming in my pants so they were nice and tight. At any rate, I was having fun, until I heard the sound. The fluttering, the futile pecking at the glass, the claws scraping along the walls. Sure enough, when I investigated, it was birdzilla: Some giant monstrous creature, its wingspan filling our family room, blocking out the sun, its raucous cries splitting my ear drums, its claws glinting in the light. After a few futile (and nearly fatal) attempts to shoo it out, I gave up and did what any intelligent teenager would do: I ran back to my room, shut the door and prayed for my parents to get home.

Obviously, then, my bird-fear is well-founded. So, imagine how I felt today when I was innocently typing away. I heard a sound. A fluttering sound. A sound that could only mean one thing. At first I contemplated closing the office door and hiding until Andrew got home. Let him deal with it, and then see if he’d ever laugh again at a peacock! Instead, I gathered up my courage and ventured into the living room. There, tapping against the glass was a bird. Not just any bird, either, but a dirty city pigeon. A rat with wings. In my living room. I think I blacked out for a moment.

When I came to, I opened our sliding door as wide as possible (it had been opened a CRACK, which is how the harpy had got in) and tried to gently shoo the animal out.

I threw a slipper at it.

Flutter, bash head against the window, flutter.

I threw the other slipper at it.

Flutter, bash head against the window, flutter.

I shoved a chair towards it.

Flutter, bash head against the window, flutter.

I realised it was no use. I was going to have to get closer. At this point the pigeon seemed a little stunned. I felt this was good, as it meant I was less likely to be pecked to death. I threw a towel over the dirty little bird. Nothing happened. No panicked flutters, not even a squawk. Excellent. Then I realised the flaw in my plan: I would have to actually approach and remove the animal.

I tried a pep talk: I could do this. I’d seen nature shows where people drug wolves to tag them with tracking devices, surely I could approach this pigeon… I bent down, plagued by images of the bird suddenly regaining its strength, like the abusive husband in Sleeping with The Enemy, who you’re sure has been killed by Julia Roberts repeated gun-shots, but then pops back up to try to kill her some more. As soon as I touched the towel, the bird would go all abusive-husband on me, and leap out, its beak ready to tear out my flesh.

I stifled my fear and grabbed. I could feel the pigeon through the thick towel. It was like I was touching a pigeon. I shuddered and tried not to gag. I might have blacked out again. When I came to this time, I was unwrapping the towel, dumping the bird unceremoniously on the porch and watching the little rodent fly away to the other building.

Now I don’t know what to do.

This apartment is all glass doors with no screens. It’s hot in here, and we usually leave a door partly open. But the pigeon threat is omnipresent. I see them swooping around the square every day. I see delusional people actually FEEDING them (Why people, why?!?!). They’ve got us surrounded. Outnumbered. Their sharpening their little claws, waiting for the day, the great reckoning, the Eye Peck Extravaganza.

We’re going to have to move.