A Pigeon's Tail

I put a net over my balcony to stop the pigeons getting in.  They were a constant threat – they would shit all over the place and generally make a mess of my one wee bit of outdoor space and sanctuary of calm in my 15^th floor flat in a tower block in Newcastle; my home back in the late 90s.  The problem now being the net was a couple of years old and a few holes had developed so pigeons could occasionally find their way in.  Whenever I left my flat to go away for any length of time – back then I was regularly off touring with a street theatre company – the last thing I did before leaving was secure the net and check the balcony was pigeon free.

I was all packed up and ready to leave.  Passport, bank card, sketchbook & pencil case, toilet bag, clothes; everything needed for a week of stilt walking in a warm European country.  Organised and on time, just one final balcony check and there are two pigeons.  I opened the balcony door.  One pigeon nimbly dived through a tiny hole in the net and the other shot straight between my legs, into my living room.  I was no longer organised and on time; I now needed to catch a pigeon.

I was running, diving, waving, grabbing at a flapping, panicking pigeon.  My uninvited guest was on the back of the couch, on the sideboard, under the table, on the bookshelf, behind the chair, and all the time I’m at least one step behind.  I was working up a sweat and felt like I could be in some manic children’s cartoon, some chaotic slapstick comedy of errors, but the athletic little pigeon showed no signs of fatigue.

Eventually I got a lucky break.  It perched on the top of the door into the hall which was slightly ajar, with its tail between the door and door frame.  If I could quickly close the door, I’d trap it by the tail and get a hold of it.  I dashed at the door and closed it. 

Ha! Got you!  I looked up in disbelief as the pigeon flew across the room, now standing on my record player.  I was certain I had it.  I opened the door and a load of feathers fluttered down in front of me.  Shit!  I had just inadvertently plucked the poor bugger’s tail.  I didn’t feel particularly good about this development, however, it had curtailed the pigeon’s acrobatics enough that I managed to grab it.

I studied the terrified bird in my hand.  I could feel its wee heart going eighteen to the dozen and was rather concerned that it appeared to have only one remaining tail feather.  Can a pigeon even fly with only one tail feather?  What do I do with this poor thing?  I was now running late and had to be pragmatic.  I surmised that if it couldn’t fly, it was a goner; there were plenty local feral cats, crows and children who would see it off.  Sorry pigeon, but you’re just going to have to take your chances.  I launched it off the balcony and to my horror, it tumbled straight toward the ground some 15 stories below.

Down and down in a seemingly endless loop of turning, twisting ruffled feathers, then at the very last moment, what looked like just inches from the ground, spread its wings and took flight, soared high across the road with graceful aplomb, up, up, away, and disappearing over distant rooftops.  I took a moment to breathe a sigh of relief, threw my rucksack over my back, locked my flat and headed out.  That was one lucky pigeon.

A few weeks later, I was relating this story to a friend who was giving me a lift back to my flat.  She found it quite hilarious.  I told her if she ever spots a pigeon in the West End of Newcastle with only one tail feather, she will know how it came to be.  I got up to my flat and heard a familiar cooing from the balcony and there it was, a very brave wee pigeon with its one tail feather.  

I grabbed it, gave it my sternest look and told it in no uncertain terms should I ever see it on my balcony again, the last tail feather would be coming out, although secretly I was happy it had survived its ordeal.  I headed straight down to Wilko’s and bought a new net.