He was alone. That was the first thing that seemed odd. Birds of a feather flock together — and this little pigeon was solo. He also wasn’t flying. Instead, he huddled in the narrow alley beside my building, unconcerned about the man who had rounded the corner only a few feet away. The little bird let me come within arms reach before it beat its wings just enough to regain a few feet of separation. Something was wrong.
I went back upstairs, Googling possible causes. It could have been injured by flying into a window; it could have eaten something toxic; it could be suffering from the summer heat; it could have simply been old. I rooted through the kitchen for seeds, nuts, and berries, washed a yogurt container, filled it with fresh water, and brought the lot down to the ailing fowl, who promptly ignored it. I gave it some time and space.
That night, he was still there. Food and water untouched, his tiny beak nestled in his plumage. The SPCA and bird sanctuaries apparently don’t come for pigeons. There he remained — fixed like a living statue, awaiting a fate I feared we both anticipated. On the fourth day, he was gone, with only my litter remaining.
Long ago, when DeLoreans roamed the earth, Brad was born. In accordance with the times, he was raised in the wild every afternoon and weekend until dusk, never becoming so feral that he neglected to rewind his VHS rentals. His historical focus has assured him that civilization peaked with The Simpsons in the mid 90s. When not disappointing his parents, Brad spends his time with his dogs, regretting he didn’t learn typing in high school.
