pigeonMy running partner saw the pigeon first. It was flapping a broken wing to try and right itself, stuck inside an open front gate of a house on the road we were running along to the Saturday morning’s Park Run. We stopped to see what we could do. There was a large gash in the pigeon’s back. It’s feathers were an anaemic blue, the blue of a watercoloured sky, the blue of the shirt I am wearing now, a birthday present from a friend.

It was obviously a fledgling, having leapt and not flown. Unable to return to its nest. Injured somehow, it didn’t occur to me how. I bent down to pick it up, but it tried to get away. I didn’t want to damage it any more. It limped away, flapping one wing and dragging the other. I finally managed to get a grip of it, both hands around its body, thinking momentarily of the image of pigeons as ridden with germs, rats with wings as some people call them, and moved it to the back of the shrub that took up most of that house’s small front garden. I wanted to leave it in a place where it could die quietly. What else could we do?

Once I put it down it flapped and limped away again, thinking itself in danger from us. It moved into a corner, flapping into the wall, unable to get further away. Then it stopped. And we had to continue to where we were going.

I don’t know of many species of creature that are more vilified and treated with such contempt. Children chase and kick at them, and their parents laugh. But the rock dove was brought into human captivity around nine thousand years ago for food and sport, and the reason we have pigeons today was because some escaped from our captivity. They have adapted to our overcoming of the world. When we pigeon hole people we are referring to the holes made in rock caves, not where the doves originally lived but where they were kept for food. It is not a flattering comparison. We look at them as if they are vermin; dirty; scavengers; ruiners of the pristine; wanters of nothing more than the waste we produce for them. There is mass, collective projection going on here, as I look at the parents looking at their children chasing and kicking the pigeons. There is one that feeds halfway down Northumberland Street, and it has a club foot. Its talons are missing; instead there is a thick, gelatinous lump on the end of its leg. An infection? A defect? It is clearly painful to walk on that foot; the pigeon feels this pain. The children run after it and try to kick it.

Later, I went back to the injured bird. I couldn’t think of that pigeon there on its own suffering. The right thing to do was go back and help. I had a hire car for a few hours, so drove there. It was a quiet road, with only one entrance and exit, so no through traffic. When I returned, the pigeon was in the middle of the road. And behind it were two cats. Sitting and waiting. They had been chasing and playing. They were the source of the deep gash in the pigeon’s back. So I got out, took my sports towel I’d carried with me in my rucksack, and chased the cats away, and finally managed to capture the pigeon in the towel, wrapped it up tight, and got back in the car. Holding the pigeon tied up with one hand, I drove home—to the veterinarian’s at the end of my street. There was nothing the vet could do, said the nurse, other than probably euthanize the bird. I left the pigeon with them. For those last moments it was calm in my grasp. I held it, and stroked its beak. Let it know that it was okay. It was better than being eaten by cats.

Now I wished I had brought it home and nursed it back to health in my garage. But I did not know how to do something like this. My knowledge of caring for pigeons or injured animals is non-existent. Not everyone dislikes pigeons. Some people fancy after them, train and fly them in competitions. Recognise their abilities. Homing pigeons use sound to image their route, to find their way back. They have superb low-frequency hearing, and make acoustic maps from the sounds emanated from the earth and oceans; they get lost if there is interference in these sounds (such as when the Concord jet flew over during a pigeon race).

A question was asked of me: How far do we go to interfere with ‘nature’—that is, cats hunt birds. Pigeons are populous, wild animals; should we concern ourselves with saving one suffering individual? This last point an argument that pattrice jones unpicks and rejects in her book The Oxen at the Intersection; that if we think only of a species then we forget that animals are individuals, and each is worthy of not suffering, and has a desire and want to live. The first point—are we interfering with nature to save a pigeon from cats?—is something I am unclear upon, in regards to a fully worked out argument. But how can my instinct to save an animal from suffering not be a part of that ‘nature’? As natural as domesticated cats, anyway. Thinking of Jean-Christophe Bailly’s small book The Animal Side, I know which side of the question I fall upon, and it is the animal side. It is the side that feels to me like the low-humming sound of home.

Image (cc) Heather aka Molly

4 comments to “The Pigeon”

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  1. Jill Clough - January 6 Reply

    How visceral this post feels. I have been in the same situation, finding a lone and wounded bird. I once took one home and kept it alive for a while in a cardboard box. The instinct to disregard ‘common’ sense and look after the wounded or abandoned creature makes us more, not less human. I bell my cats to stop them hunting birds. If they release a mouse in the house (it will be a field mouse) I catch it and return it to the field but I don’t stop my big cat from eating mice. I won’t let him play with them. My attitude is full of anomalies. I hang out food for the birds well away from the cats.
    I too have turned a car around and driven back to check what I’ve seen. Once it was an owl sitting on the white line in the middle of the A6. I thought it must have been wounded and I couldn’t leave it to be squashed. When I drove back, it swivelled its great head, stared at me and took off, effortlessly. I felt put in my place. It was a wonderful feeling.

    • Alex Lockwood - January 6 Reply

      Thanks Jill. We saw an owl driving along the A1 about 7pm the other night, just missed all the trucks and cars as it made its way across the road. Glad we saw, but missed, it. I’m writing again regularly (now the PhD is done!) and trying to use it as a means to process thoughts as I work on the new book.

  2. pattricejones - January 15 Reply

    Alex, this is lovely. (I saw it because your post pinged my blog.) As you may know, hundreds of pigeons live with us at VINE Sanctuary. I have an especial fondness for them, and so I was touched by the the heartfelt nature of what you write here.

    By the way, we are planning a “pigeon page” for our website. I wonder if you would mind if we linked to this or even consider writing something especially for us?

    • Alex Lockwood - January 29 Reply

      Dear pattrice, sorry for late reply (teaching stuck in the marking mountain!). I did not know about the pigeons at VINE, no, even though I am following your blog. I would love to write something for you, yes, if you’re creating a page. It would be a pleasure. I’ll drop you an email.

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