Bloody pigeons

There are many reasons for this post. Firstly to document a recent discussion I took part in, detailing how s"*^ they are - the vermine of the skies - and how the 3 (or so) missing people each day in Dundee can probably be attributed to them. Either in the form of their flying off with small urchin children, or wayward pigeons enlisting the assistance of their more distant, and socially shunned, relatives - the seagulls.

I was reminded of this wee chat, when the following morning, my darling boyfriend staggered down the stairs to investiate the source of some bangs and dare I mention them, crashes. I was woken some moments later by the soft vocals of previously mentioned significant other intoning "honey, this one's still alive". My cue to scrape myself out of the bed and wander down the stairs.

Upon reaching the compter desk I discover none other than a bloody pigeon. And some rather large chunks of pigeon bits. And on venturing into the kitchen for a tea-towel (in order to deal with the live one) some disturbing pools of blood - for that matter, every conceivable pigeon fluid - on my nice new laminate flooring. The bloody pigeon was in fact still alive in spite of this, but the cats where not in the least but peturbed by my attempt to remove it from the premises. A point of note that I will return to.

So pigeon, tea-towel and I migrate to the shed. (the place of deposit for things that are essentially wating to die - interestingly this has not been used in recent weeks, as afore mentioned resident man has no problems accelerating this process, thus leaving the shed a redundant middle stage) The bloody pigeon (in both senses of the word I now realise) is suitably deposited. And we wait.

At this early hour of the morning a converstation ensues between the two involved parties. (me and man, the pigeon is now out of earshot) Eric had attempted to attack, and it can be assumed had he been successful, finish off the prey. However, upon his threatening approach, he was convincingly pecked on the side, and thus retreated. I remark that any other bird would be dead already, Bloody Pigeons. The man who is the resident bird finsisher offer notes that the shed is for the best since he would have been there for ages wringing its neck, Bloody Pigeons. A cleaning up enterprise continues.

And continues, as the next morning when I get up sees me re-disenfecting the floor downstairs in the house.

The story should now be over, but, over 24 hours later, the pigeon is still not dead.

BLOODY PIGEONS.