Yesterday evening, a pigeon strutted into my bedroom through the open balcony door. I sat on the bed, amused at the grand entry.It walk around bobbing it’s head,surveying the room. It was not perturbed by Junior’s noisy entry. The same cannot be said of Junior -“Mama, a pigeon!“he squealed and froze near the door. The pigeon, on the other hand, gave a cursory glance and proceeded towards the bedside table.
Fascinated, Junior and I watched as it inspected under the table, hid behind the curtains.It had fluffed it’s feathers. The green-purple neck and throat feathers glittered in the soft white light of my room. For the first time in my life, I observed carefully the black bands on the wings, the orange eyes and the pink feet of a pigeon.
It was getting dark outside. I got up and shooed the pigeon out of the room into the balcony. Strangely, it did not fly. It walked away clumsily.
“Mama, why is the pigeon not flying?” Junior asked.
“Maybe it’s a baby pigeon…maybe it’s a mother pigeon ready to lay eggs( it looked fluffed up and fat)…Come’on, get inside Junior. It’s going to rain,” I replied.
In the morning, my husband found the same pigeon on the balcony ledge. He noticed that it had some problem with one of the wings.
“What do pigeons eat?” he asked.
“NO feeding pigeons in our house, please,” I said, “unless we want a balcony full of bird poo.”
A few minutes ago, I opened the balcony door and found the pigeon dead, lying right in front of the door.
I am feeling terrible…miserable……stupid…guilty……….. The thought that the pigeon had come to me for help, and that I had turned my back on it is killing me. The collage above is of a pigeon flock that regularly visits my apartment lawn. Maybe this unfortunate pigeon was member of this flock.