Once Upon A Time, I Rescued A Pigeon.
And I named him Spot.
When I first met Spot he was walking across a six-lane street during rush hour, headed towards the median. Cars were whizzing by him, but he seemed not to notice the imminent danger.
Or maybe he just didn’t care. (This will make sense later, just consider it Clue #1.)
Most people slowed down to let him pass, but no one stopped. Something was obviously wrong – he wasn’t even trying to fly as he ambled in front of the moving cars. I couldn’t believe no one was stopping to help him.
Well, I’m a sucker for a wounded animal, or a man with issues. It must be the caretaker in me.
I pulled over, and captured the pigeon in a towel. (A pity it isn’t so easy to capture a man.) I put him inside a box I had in my car. The pigeon, not a man. Unfortunately.
When I noticed he had a big wound under one wing I took him to a vet. The vet cleaned his wound, probably a cat bite (Clue #2), and sold me some bird antibiotics. He couldn’t fly because the bite was in the muscle used for flying.
Naturally, I took him home. (Did I mention it’s a pity men aren’t as easy to capture?) I planned to nurse him back to health, and free him in a couple weeks. I made him a nice, open box with food and a nesting place. He was free to walk around the house.
Since he was going to be living with me for a while he needed a name. I named him Spot. I know, I know, only dogs are supposed to be named Spot. Well, I suck at picking names. Here’s how it went: He was a white pigeon with small black spots. In that respect, he looked like a Dalmatian. A Dalmatian is a dog. Dogs are named Spot. I named the pigeon Spot.
It’s perfectly logical to me. I suspect this type of logic may somehow reflect my inability to find a well-adjusted man. Just a guess.
All went well for about a week, and he even started trying to fly around the house. He wasn’t very good at it and kept crashing into the windows and walls, hurling himself against the hard, flat surfaces. (We might consider this Clue #3, but it’s a tad ambiguous so we’ll let it go.)
Finally comprehending I wasn’t going to eat him, he started hanging out in the same room with me, and would come out to meet me when I came home from work. Probably hoping for food, but whatever. It’s not like he would eat out of my hand, but he seemed to want to be near me, although just out of arms reach. I think Spot had trust issues. Probably why I liked him.
In a few more days I planned to release him, but one day I came home from work and he didn’t come to greet me. I looked around the house until I found him. In the bathroom.
More specifically, in the toilet. Soaking wet. His wings spread open and up the sides of the bowl, his body – wound and all – in the cold toilet water. He was stuck there.
This is Clue #3 and about the time I realized Spot had real issues. Yup, I liked him.
I began to suspect Spot was suicidal: Got bit by the cat, walked across a busy street at rush hour, flung himself into walls, immersed himself in the toilet… *swoon* It’s no wonder I loved the little guy.
I couldn’t tell how long he’d been in the toilet, but he was shivering. Another towel, back in the box, this time with a heater, and another visit to the vet. My usual vet was gone, but her service recommended a nearby vet.
The new vet was really nice, caring, handsome and didn’t charge me for his help with the pigeon. I now loved him, too.
Despite his attempts otherwise, Spot managed to heal just fine and I released him a couple weeks later out my back door. My house was on the edge of a ravine, in the foothills of a heavily wooded area, with a nice little creek down below. A perfect place to release Spot.
When I released him, he flew to a nearby tree and looked back at me. He had this look like: “??? You just let me go? You’re not coming after me? I thought we had a thing?” (This look and the sudden realization that ‘Oh, she’s giving up’ is all too familiar to me.)
For the next several days, Spot continued to hang around the backyard, perching on nearby trees and the fence. One really stormy day about a week or so later I saw him, sitting on the fence in the storm, soaking wet (Clue #4), just staring at my house. Probably a little stalker in him, too.
I left open the garage door and put out seed for him, in case he found the good sense to come in out of the rain. I don’t know if he did, I never saw him after that.
Yet another metaphor for my dating life: A pigeon, with trust and commitment issues, and quite possibly a death wish, when given his freedom from the thing he thought he wanted to be free of (me), continues to hang around, sitting “on the fence”, even when to leave altogether, or come inside would be better than sitting on the fence freezing to death in the storm.
It’s funny how even when I “let them go”, they come back, but still sit on the proverbial fence. It seems obvious to me that either of the other two options is better than fence-sitting.
My Dearest Kernutties, the new year is approaching – one of my most favorite holidays. It’s an anniversary of sorts for me. It’s also the day I like most to celebrate with nookie: Once before midnight to say goodbye to the old year, and once again on January 1st to welcome in the New Year properly.
It’s also the perfect time to make a change. Are you sitting on a metaphorical fence? Please take the plunge and do the thing that scares you. Life is too short, and fear isn’t worth your time. Go grab your brass ring and savor every moment!
I’m off to find a new pigeon (preferably one with a motorhome and the desire and means to travel). I plan to welcome in the beauty of the New Year, with or without a willing pigeon.
Happy New Year my dear Kernutties! May yours be filled with all the magic, wonder, and love life has to offer!