People vs Pigeons

I used to think that pigeons were kind of adorable.

My husband and I had a funny-only-to-us habit of calling them by name (always the moniker “Signor Piccione”). Not understanding how you could possibly have a beef against what’s basically a dove, I reacted with in-my-head derision when people complained about them. A symbol of peace in one context, a symbol of the scummiest that city life has to offer in another? How is that fair?

Ignorance is bliss—until reality comes flapping right up in your face, that is. As I now know, labeling pigeons “rats of the sky” downplays the suffering of the humans forced to deal with the feathered vermin. Humans such as me, of course.

You’ve probably already guessed that my sudden conversion to hater of pigeons was inspired by a recent incident. Correct. True to form, I’m sharing the unexpected gift given to me by the birds that are doing their darndest to remain lords of my apartment’s balcony. (You’re welcome!) If I have to live through their reign of terror, you should have to read about it. The obvious difference, however, is that it’s in your power to close this tab and shift to a more productive—or more interesting—task. I, on the other hand, have no choice but to sit here listening to pigeons relentlessly cooing outside the window. Their mocking call is a ceaseless reminder that they’ve a) laid siege and b) are too stupid and/or stubborn to relocate to a spot in which their presence might be met with less hostility.

When we first saw them (always two, never one) perched on the ledge, we didn’t think much of it. Though I don’t remember for sure, I probably admired them, even. I mean, at the time, I was still in my pro-pigeon era. I still felt sorry for the pigeons I saw aimlessly wandering down the sidewalk, seemingly homeless and helpless. In contrast, here was a content pair of them just hanging out and absently gazing into oblivion. How I envied their cluelessness. How I long for my former naiveté.

I was also able to delude myself into thinking that the new soundtrack to my existence was the drone of a jackhammer in one of the many construction sites in the vicinity. Our apartment has exceptional soundproofing, and I’d never before been bothered by such consistent and irritating noise, but for once in my life, I was embracing the principle of Occam’s razor.

I’ll never make that mistake again.

Over the next few weeks, the pigeons made themselves progressively more at home. Soon, they were cooing away almost all daylight hours.

We had waited just too long to take concrete action to get rid of them. By the time we developed an anti-pigeon strategy, they had settled in for the long haul.

I’ll acknowledge that the blame doesn’t fall only on the pigeons. Much as I’m loathe to assign any fault to anything or anyone but my avian foe, I’ll take the high road and admit that we committed a grave error. See, we’d foolishly assumed that displaying evergreen shrubs where we’d had our dahlias in the warm months would have no negative repercussions, that we could enjoy a little colour during the cold season without serious consequence. In retrospect, I’m embarrassed to have failed to consider what’s now all too evident: that our source of fleeting joy was the pigeons’ source of nest-building materials.

Though we had indeed been slow to intercede, as soon as it reached the point at which we could no longer deny the truth—that our balcony was now the pigeons’ domain—we did our best to make up for lost time. My husband did extensive research and, based on his findings, implemented a multipronged approach that grew in complexity as our failures mounted. We cleared the balcony and cleaned it, we blocked the spots most suited for nests, we sprinkled spices, we bought and placed mirrors, and we sat by the window and ran out to aggressively chase the pigeons away every time we spotted them. They curiously pecked at the spices, swooped in and sat directly on the mirrors, and responded to our menacing gestures with nothing but indifference, returning over, and over, and over again.

I’d like to entertain the idea that we’ve made progress. Their visits have become a little less frequent. Last weekend, a miracle occurred: we were blessed with twenty-four hours uninterrupted by coos. But then, out of nowhere, there they were, sitting on the ledge as if nothing had ever happened. As I write, there they are again. Their glistening backs reflect the morning sun, and their intrusive call penetrates the inner reaches of my soul.

There’s still work to be done, and I refuse to surrender.