The blasted rats with wings.
“Coo. Coo. Coo.
“I hate you.”
It all started back when my daughter was three months old.
It all started when I was pregnant with my daughter and we moved into a rental home.
There was a rustling in the eves. I looked up. And a thousand pigeons stared down at me.
“Oh. Aren’t they cute?” I ignorantly thought.
I assumed anything would have been better than the apartment where we had been living. A girl I went to high school with lived in the same apartment complex. She had woken up the week before when a bullet went through the pillow next to her head. The neighbors upstairs had gotten into a little spat. No biggie.
We moved the next week.
Into a different kind of nightmare.
A nightmare occupied and governed by a new beast.
A beast innocently called, “pigeon.”
There is nothing innocent about a pigeon.
Don’t let those children’s books, “Don’t let the pigeon drive the bus!” fool you. There should be a book entitled, “Don’t let the pigeons near us!” or something similar. Maybe a little darker. Maybe involving a certain pigeon and a bus with the kind of happy ending I could get behind. Anyway, I digress…
They were everywhere.
We could not clean up the droppings fast enough.
I gave birth to my daughter and rarely left the house for three months. This led me to conveniently ignore the pigeons. I thought they were an annoying nuissance. Nothing more. Certainly not a death trap.
Okay. Let’s fast forward. My daughter is three months old. It was raining. I went to lay her down in her crib for her nap and I felt a drop of water hit my hand. I looked up and the entire ceiling above her crib was swollen with water. It drooped low and menacingly above our heads.
I quickly ran and placed my daughter safely in her bassinet in our bedroom. Then I moved the crib towards the doorway, away from the bowing ceiling.
I then called my landlord.
“Hello. Yes, this is your tenants. The ceiling in our daughter’s room is completely filled with wa-.”
I ran into the room. The ceiling had caved in. The area where my daughter’s crib had been mere minutes before was now littered with broken plaster and jagged beams.
To say it was scary was an understatement.
It turns out that the
delightful pigeons fiends that had roosted there had feces that could melt a roof. And they did. And it was.
And then the roof was fixed.
Here is the kicker: Apparently this was the third time this had happened! And they let me put my baby’s room there. And they never exterminated the house! And we moved two months later.
They do exist!
Now that I am aware of the detriments that these creatures can create, I am always watchful of a single pigeon. I will not let these tenants move in. Not for one day. Not for an hour.
The other day, I heard it. It was the sound from my nightmares.
“Mom, is that an owl?”
“No, son. That’s a demon.”
I went outside. There it was, resting on my chimney. Taunting me.
Seriously, look at it looking at me.
Why? Why do I spend all of my efforts on my thighs? If the pigeon was closer, I could have used my thigh’s awesome power and clapped it to smitherines. But no such luck. It was not getting near my trap.
Then I thought of it.
I scrambled to the pool area. I grabbed one of my kid’s high power water guns. I filled it with pool water.
And I took aim.
It hit the side of the roof.
The pigeon was not phased.
I refilled my gun.
At this point, I was covered in water. I was wearing rain boots (photo shoot for a story). It was eighty degrees and sunny outside. I was screaming at the bird. I was giving the bird the bird. And I am sure my neighbors were cooing in their pants.
Refill. Shoot. Miss. Scream.
Finally the pigeon took pity on me. Or I had turned into a bigger monster than it.
I hope it did not leave to get back-up.
Oh well. I have a whole pool full of water and many more refills in me.
This war ain’t over.
“Coo! Coo! Coo!
I’ll get you.”
Has a war ever been won with water guns? I am afraid I am about to find out.
*I recognize the pictures are of a Dove and not a Pigeon. In my flurry of uncharacteristically fast movement I forgot to get a picture of THE Pigeon. If you squint, you can just pretend like I do. Of course, I don’t squint. I just drink wine. Cheers.