This is a story about pigeons. Strange pigeons. Peculiar pigeons. Oddball, atypical pigeons; pigeons that look like chickens; pigeons that resemble little peacocks. First, though, it’s a story about one particularly plucky pigeon (try saying that three times fast), a true story that will, perhaps, establish the plight of pigeons. It takes place in my southern California suburban neighborhood. One day, as I was working feverishly in my home office, my intense concentration was penetrated by the persistent and raucous cawing of one of the neighborhood crows, and the equally raucous cry of a local mockingbird. Reluctantly, I tore myself away from my work, uncrossing my legs and putting down my frosted glass, and stepped outside to see what was what.
Perched on the very top of my neighbor’s tall pine tree was a large red-tailed hawk. It sat, stoic and dignified, disdaining to even flinch as an equally large crow dive-bombed it at great speed, over and over. Each time, the crow would close to within a foot before veering away, only to slam on the brakes by turning its wings vertically, then whirling and dive-bombing again. And each time, a mockingbird followed the crow, annoying it like a buzzing mosquito around one’s head, or an independent investigator around a president.
Enter our hero. A pigeon, possibly cracking under the stress of the racket going on over its head, burst out of another tree below the pine, apparently intent on making a break for a little peace and quiet.
Now, regardless of what you think of pigeons—and we’ll get to that in a moment—when it comes to in-flight speed, pigeons can boogie. Your basic street pigeon (this one) averages 40 to 50 miles per hour; racing pigeons, bred and trained by humans for speed and endurance, routinely clock speeds of 90 mph and more. That’s faster than my Toyota, but statistics apparently didn’t faze the hawk, who, unimpressed, self-employed, and totally focused, exploded off the pine and in a graceful swoop grabbed the pigeon midair in its talons before disappearing over my roof.
Mouth agape over this perfect example of Tennyson’s Nature, red in tooth and claw, I raced around to the front of the house, as fast as my bedroom slippers could take me, where the drama continued to unfold. There sat the hawk, in my neighbor’s driveway, the unmoving body (early rigor mortis?) of the pigeon still clasped in its talons. The crow continued to dive-bomb the hawk; ditto the mockingbird, who continued to harass the crow. Finally the hawk had enough. As it relaunched itself into the air, though, it must have become momentarily distracted; the pigeon, which I had assumed was a goner, broke free, flying swiftly into the dense cover of a nearby tree. The hawk started to pursue but then lazily flew away, all the while pursued by cawing crow and screeching mockingbird.
