Pidgie was born next door, in the corner of the balcony just on the other side of a white trellis that separates my balcony from that of my neighbor's. Her nest was a pathetic flattened little circle of pine needles arranged on the green artificial turf that covers the balcony floor. I had watched her mother systematically establish that crude nest, much to my disgust. I did not like pigeons; "rats with wings" as they are sometimes called, was a fitting moniker as far as I was concerned. Living in the city with the ubiquitous Rock Dove - the true name of the species - was unavoidable. But that didn't mean I had to like them.
The living room of our third-floor condo has a bright northeast exposure and serves as workplace: my art studio. Easel and drawing table are stationed by the sliding glass doors that give out to a carefully tended balcony garden resplendent with bougainvillea, roses, tulips. Beyond are the varied rooftops of mid-Wilshire and, in the distance, a glimpse of the San Gabriel mountains. Invariably the scene also includes pigeons criss-crossing in flight. I watch them while I work, keeping an eye out for the occasional daring bird that spies my clean balcony with plants and thinks it's fair game. Frequently they arrive in pairs, looking for a nesting haven. But word must have got out about my furiously wielding a garden broom, screaming "getthehellouttahere" the moment I catch sight of tiny orange feet outstretched for a landing. After many years, it always seemed my neighbors were the ones with the pigeon problems, not me. My next door neighbor was seldom home during the day, and a pair of pigeons found out pretty quick that her balcony was out of reach of my broom. Before long they established that crude nest next to our shared trellis. I had a feeling something was up when I had to endure hours of ecstatic cooing from next door. When I noticed the pigeons had gone off somewhere, I went to take a look. Sure enough, in that poor-excuse-for-a-nest lay two small, light brown speckled eggs.
The adult pigeons rarely left the eggs alone, so this was an opportunity. I took the end of the broom and gave the eggs a nudge. Roll, roll, roll, roll. They teetered on the edge of the balcony. I watched as they disappeared over the side, my emotions conflicted between satisfaction and pangs of conscience. I leaned over to look; the two eggs had become a sidewalk omelet. When the adult pigeons returned, their cooing changed to outright wailing. I never imagined pigeons would display such capacity for grief. I covered my ears with my hands and felt the full weight of my guilt.
Two more weeks went by and the mother pigeon was parked in her nest again. Underneath her breast I could make out the form of two more speckled eggs. This time the mother rarely left to search for food. My husband repeatedly insisted she was "starving" (to which I would respond with, "Tough" or alternately, "Fine with me"). She would stare at me, glassy-eyed, through the interstices in the trellis. Some days she barely moved, looking more like a clay pigeon than a real one. One day, feeling unusually benevolent -- and still a wee bit guilty -- I thrust a piece of water-soaked toast at her from between the ends of bamboo tongs. She downed it in one voracious gulp and looked at me in what I swear was an indication of thanks -- and that, I think, was the beginning, when I began to soften and realize that maybe, just maybe, there was something more to pigeons than simply pooping pests.
A few weeks went by and one of the eggs hatched. The hatchling was ugly -- not that mature pigeons are things of great beauty -- but baby pigeons are especially so with their oversized, ungainly beaks and unruly pinfeathers. The name "Pidgie" seemed to suit. After the egg hatched the mother pigeon spent her days searching for food, which meant Pidgie was left alone. This she protested with a continuous stream of annoying, breathy cheeps that reminded me of a dog's squeaky-toy that has been chewed once too often. I would try to concentrate on my work, but peace was forever broken by the constant "wheeee-hee, wheeee-hee" of the baby pigeon. In the past I'd had some success to get pigeons to momentarily stop their annoying cooing by calling out pleasantly, "will you shut up!" They would be silent for about fifteen minutes before they'd forget themselves and start in again. But my words had no effect on Pidgie who, for the most part, didn't know I existed and probably wouldn't care if she did. So I lived with "wheeee-hee, wheeee-hee" as I painted in the morning and with my late afternoon tea. It was accompaniment while I tended our balcony garden; it was irritable background noise while I struggled to meet deadlines, trying to stay focused and concentrate. But the only time Pidgie stayed quiet was when the mother pigeon returned to feed her.
One day Pidgie finally did stop her infernal wheezing and squeaking. She had taken an interest in expanding her world. Each day I noticed she crept a few inches further from her nest. Occasionally I'd attempt small talk and say "hello, stupid pigeon" but she ignored me completely. She progressed in tiny distances, but she did this furtively and I never actually saw her move. She was still ugly, and growing larger. And she'd made a considerable mess of my neighbor's balcony, leaving her little indiscretions wherever she'd been. After about a month Pidgie, now a juvenile, learned to fly like the other members of pigeondom. She returned regularly to my neighbor's balcony and would park herself on the railing, facing outward towards the street, regarding the same view as I did. And then one day I found her sitting on my balcony railing. Not only was she stationed there, but she'd hunkered down and appeared to have fallen fast asleep.
I had learned to recognize Pidgie's particular coloration and markings. Pigeons have a considerable morphology ranging from almost pure white to variegated charcoal grays, and Pidgie's markings were predominantly cinnamon-colored. She had white wing tips that positively glowed from their newness. She also had the awkward pinfeathers which still clung to her head, giving her the appearance of sporting bushy sideburns. And now, she was taking a nap where she did not belong. Snapping open the balcony slider I yelled, "Hey! Get outta here!" but drew no response. Not even a ruffled feather. Could it be that I was dealing with a deaf pigeon? Or just a very sound sleeper? I picked up my gardening broom and cracked the end down hard against the balcony railing. Jarred by the sudden vibration, Pidgie's eyes shot wide open, her neck arched and she shook her head in apparent dismay. And then she promptly fluffed her feathers with the ease and comfort as one fluffs a pillow before bed -- and went back to sleep.
"Oh, for Pete's sake…", I muttered, and then tried to give her a little shove with the end of the broom. It woke her again, but this time she hopped on to the bristles. I tried to shake her off, but this apparently was the equivalent of a pigeon roller-coaster ride and she held fast to the broom, bobbing up and down. Her added weight made it difficult for me to continue and I began to get breathless, yelling, "get…the…hell…out…of…here". Finally she seemed to tire of the game and hopped back on to the railing, turned her back to me, and assumed the nap position once more. My shoulders drooped in defeat. I began to whine to the bird: "I do NOT want you here. You belong next door. I will not have you foul up my balcony." Once again I picked up the broom and this time gave her a little shove under her tail feathers. Pidgie abruptly turned around and, with an expression of utter indignation, let out two wheezing squeals: "Waaah! WAAAHHH" -- and then she opened her beak wide again, but apparently was so overcome that no further sound came. We glared at one another -- and I don't know who was the more surprised. But the gesture hit home: Pidgie marched down the railing and parked herself -- this time on my neighbor's side of the trellis.
But the next day she was back. And the next. And each time I would try yelling to make her leave, but the only thing that got her attention was when I reached for the broom.
Some days later another pigeon arrived -- a much larger, cinnamon-colored pigeon. At first I guessed it might be the mother pigeon having returned and began to call it Fat Mama. However, observing them together I soon discovered Fat Mama was really a male -- in fact he was the now-full-grown Pidgie's mate. Nonetheless, the name stuck I continue to call them Pidgie and Fat Mama to this day. Of course, neither of them knows their name nor do they respond to them.
After months of my vigilance they finally learned, and accepted, that my balcony is off-limits. I could even feed them once in a while with those bamboo tongs; they would take a nibble and then hesitantly try to edge over to my balcony. All I had to do was give them a firm, "NO! Go home", and they'd turn tail and trot back to my neighbor's side.
I kept an eye out for Pidgie and Fat Mama. If I heard gentle cooing I'd get up from my drawing table to take a look-see. Invariably it would be one of "my" pigeons (as I now referred to them) announcing their arrival on my neighbor's balcony. Sometimes I'd watch their behavior with the other neighborhood pigeons, and after a while I began to differentiate between the various "locals" by their distinct markings. I began to give names to all the pigeons I learned to recognize: Pockets, Pristine, Spark Plug, Fuzby. They hung out on top of the street lamp below my balcony, and it always was the same group that parked there. Every so often, Fat Mama would join them, too.
One day it occurred to me that pigeons were good subject material for painting, especially in Chinese brush and ink, which is my preferred medium. I began painting pigeons: strutting pigeons, pecking pigeons, pigeons preening, which they do endlessly. While their glassy stares didn't convey much emotion, their assorted poses did. They proved excellent models, even though they often switched poses much faster than I could paint them. But they were free and always available.
One day Pidgie and Fat Mama arrived on my balcony unbidden. They were with a third pigeon: a smallish, dark gray bird that looked unfamiliar. All three perched on the railing and faced the glass sliders, apparently looking in at me. I was taken aback, because for so many months they had seemed to understand they were not allowed to stay on my balcony. This strange bird must have been a bad influence. I stepped out to the balcony. The three birds stared back, fearless. I used the oft repeated, "Go home!" To my surprise, all three pigeons -- Pidgie leading the way -- obediently turned and waddled back along the railing to my neighbor's balcony. Later I wondered: had Pidgie and Fat Mama brought a friend for me to meet? And I'd been so rude!
Some weeks afterward there was a terrific storm with thunder and lightning. The neighborhood pigeons huddled on the street lamp. They didn’t seem to mind the rain; perhaps it provided a rare opportunity for a bath. Several days had gone by and I realized that, while I'd seen the "locals", Fat Mama and Pidgie were conspicuously absent. As more days passed without sighting them I became puzzled and concerned. Where had they gone? Were they all right? I began to weigh the possibility that I might never find out, for as suddenly as they had appeared months ago, they just as suddenly seemed to have vanished from my life. I didn't want to admit it at first, but I realized in their absence, I missed the little critters.
Part 2: Duffle and Dimwit
Some weeks later I thought I recognized Fat Mama perched on the street lamp with the other local pigeons or occasionally, soaring around the neighborhood. Pidgie had taken off for points unknown. I could only surmise that the relationship between Fat Mama and Pidgie was finished, that their roost next door was now up for grabs.
A few mornings later a pair of smallish dark gray variegated pigeons began to check out the next door balcony. They wandered along the railing and surveyed the contents. The balcony looked pretty lived-in, and they probably were considering whether or not to stay. Then they began to edge towards my balcony, at which point I opened the door and yelled: "NO!". In a confusion of frantically flapping wings, they took off.
But they returned. I named the male "Duffle" and his mate "Dimwit". They soon took up residence in Fat Mama and Pidgie's domain, and Duffle began to construct a nest. His work was far more elaborate than the one Pidgie was born in: he placed it under a large cardboard box that my neighbor carelessly left on her balcony. Although I could not see much of what was underneath that box, Duffle, with occasional assistance from Dimwit, made endless trips to forage for suitable nesting material. this process continued for days, and it wasn't until my neighbor removed the cardboard box (now decorated by pigeon droppings) that I saw the fruits of his labor: it was an outstanding mound of pine needles. Of course, once the cardboard 'roof' was gone, the nest was a bit lacking. But that didn't seem to stop Duffle or Dimwit. I watched their impassioned pigeon-kisses, beak-to-beak, and their eventual coupling which was followed by more passionate kisses. They seemed a very devoted couple.
But Duffle had a serious flaw: he discovered flower seeds that I had planted in terra cotta pots on my balcony, and dug every all of them up, to the last one. I had carefully planted packets of seeds, but none ever sprouted, and I frequently found potting soil scattered all about. Once I caught him in the act and screamed at him, but this had no effect whatsoever. Even when it seemed he'd eaten every last seed, Duffle proceeded to dig in the dirt. I finally took to chasing him with the infamous Broom.
Part 3: Crapper
Dimwit and Duffle did not produce any eggs and abandoned their cushy pine needle nest. A few weeks later, to my delight, Pidgie returned. But it was not with Fat Mama. Instead, she had a new liaison, a classic gray pigeon with black wing bands. He looked like the bird I used to call "Fuzby", and so I decided that that was who he must be.
Both Pidgie and Fuzby did not waste any time at setting up housekeeping. By now, Dimwit and Duffle's old nest was in a state of serious disrepair, but Fuzby proved to be a master builder. He made a round, fluffy nest of the popular pine needle construct, and wedged it between the outer wall of the balcony and a white plastic garden chair that my neighbor had set out. No doubt, Fuzby and Pidgie considered the chair as a sign that they were welcome. In a few weeks, there were 2 eggs in the nest and Fuzby, devoted father, spent more time watching them and sitting on them than Pidgie.
But after a few days, a third pigeon arrived. It was a rusty pigeon that reminded me of Fat Mama, but he didn't have FM's regal bearing. In fact, this pigeon looked like he'd been in a terrific fight and barely escaped with his life. His feathers were matted and soiled. After a few chance meetings, I realized the appropriate name for this pigeon was Crapper. He seemed to like my balcony best, which did not amuse me, but he not only looked a wreck, he had a game left foot as well. It was bent at an uncomfortable angle and eventually remained deformed into a clubfoot. I felt sorry for him, and he knew it. When I asked 'what happened to your foot', Crapper would turn around and thrust out the mangled claw and hop about on his one good foot. Despite his propensity to leave behind messes, I felt pity for the bird. I also soon found out that he was remarkably clever.
Crapper took up lodging next door on top of the air conditioner. Neither Pidgie nor Fuzby seemed to mind. The three of them got along quite well; they didn't interfere with each other's lives and coexisted by sharing my neighbor's balcony: Pidgie and Fuzby had the nest and most of the floor, while Crapper had the air conditioner and the railing. Crapper also parked himself on the trellis that divided my balcony from their's, but soon learned to respond to my prompts of "GET DOWN!" and would immediately hop off the trellis and return to his air conditioner. Most of the time. In the mornings I would survey the floor of my balcony and take a hose to the area near the trellis.
While Fuzby and Pidgie concentrated on their nest, Crapper would practice vocalizing. He had the loudest, deepest coo I'd ever heard. Actually, it was more of a growl. He would start out softly: "wuh wuh wuh" and gradually build to "wuuhhh wuuhhh wuuuuhhhh WUUUHHH WUUUHH WUUUHHH……and he would do this for hours. His growls became so annoying that I started yelling at him to "shut up!". Occasionally, he seemed to react and would be silenced for a few minutes, and then would begin again "wuuhhh wuuhhh wuuuuhhhh".
Eventually Crapper's vocalizing must have gotten to Fuzby and Pidgie. The nest remained barren of eggs, and they began to spend less and less time on my neighbor's balcony. The other neighborhood pigeons soared in graceful packs and Fuzby and Pidgie began to join them. I called these soaring episodes "the Pigeon Races" and I'd watch from my balcony while Crapper sat on the trellis and sulked. And kept up his growling. And then one day I watched Crapper become motivated and joined the circling pack. His clubfoot didn't affect his flying skills, and he was a formidable flyer. Once he joined the Pigeon Races he very quickly took the lead position, piloting the rest of the flock. "Crapper is King Pigeon!" I'd cheer. And after he had established his Pigeon Seniority, he'd circle widely and come back to his customary roost on my neighbor's air conditioner or the trellis.
It was now the heat of summer, and there was no rain. I watered my balcony plants with a hose attached to my kitchen sink at one end, and the other that I could drag out to the balcony. When puddles of runoff formed, Crapper began to visit to slurp up the water. I realized the poor bird was probably suffering from constant dehydration, so I put a shallow saucer of water out for him. But he didn't seem to be able to figure out that the dish of water was for him, and continued to arrive when I watered my plants to drink the runoff. I took to leaving little puddles on the balcony railing for him, and he soon learned to follow my finger when I'd point to the puddles and tell him "this is water for you.". One day while I watered the plants he followed the hose and sat under the spray, lifting one wing high over his head as if to say, "wash me under my wing, please!". I gently sprayed him with a light mist. He fluffed his feathers and alternately lifted one wing, then the other. And so it went for the rest of the summer. I gave Crapper water and baths. He always managed to communicate what he wanted, and arrived on my balcony every day without fail. On very hot days the puddles would evaporate almost as quickly as I made them, and Crapper would be frantically licking the damp concrete. I would stand outside and pour more puddles with the hose, and then show him the new water. Eagerly he'd slurp up the next puddle and the next. I wished he would understand how to drink from a dish, but this technique eluded his little Pigeon brain.
In late summer Crapper acquired a friend, a grey pigeon with black wing bands, like a female version of Fuzby. And like Crapper, she had a little deformity: her beak was hooked at the tip. I began to call this bird PBJ, (for Pigeon Bird Johnson). (Later I shortened it to just PB). PB was a bit shy, but after a while she too would drink from the puddles I left, and she also allowed me to give her a mist shower. One day she drank from the water gathered in the drainage dishes I kept under the potted plant. I was surprised that she seemed to recognize water in a dish, but Crapper still only drank from a puddle. And then one day she drank from the drainage dish and Crapper watched her. When she'd had her fill, Crapper tried it. He stuck his beak into the water and drank briefly, then pulled his head up suddenly as if in great amazement: Hey! This stuff is GOOD!. He then drank his fill. After that I took to leaving a dish of fresh water out for them both every morning.
Part 4: For the Birds
When autumn came I realized birds have a difficult time finding food, so I bought a bag of assorted wild bird seed and a Zen-like feeder shaped like a hermit's hut with a peaked roof. Crapper and PB were elated! Soon other neighborhood birds also discovered there was sustenance to be had at my balcony. I began to get other visitors: nine mourning doves (who fought constantly, slapping each other with their wings with a loud CRACK! like the snapping open of a Japanese fan), a dozen house finches - males with bright red-orange heads and chests and the subtly-colored females with beige striated feathers; a fat sparrow I named "Gorge", and a strange, completely white-feathered little bird with black eyes and a pink, finch-like beak. The little white bird quickly acquired a name: Little White Bread. I suspected LWB was an escapee from the local pet shop.
Both Crapper and PB had to adjust to sharing my balcony with the other birds. Crapper seemed to understand the balcony was his, and the others' presence was permissible, so long as he and PB got their share of seeds first. But inevitably, fights sometimes broke out.
Each species has its own fighting technique; pigeons wrestle beak to beak, while doves slap each other with their wings. Sparrows and finches engage in martial dances, swirling about each other or leaping up and down with wings splayed. Sometimes there are shouting matches. Mockingbirds attack their adversaries like fighter pilots.
One day a very large dark charcoal pigeon appeared. I named him "Char". Char was elegant, but he was also a marauder and Crapper was intimidated by his presence. I realized that Crapper's seniority was in danger, so I came to his rescue and chastised Char. With my intervention, Crapper seemed to gain confidence, and soon it was clear to Char that my balcony was Crapper's territory, and any other pigeon had to accept Crapper's status.
I bought a small fountain for the balcony. More pigeons came; a juvenile I named "Twitchy" because of its habit of rolling its shoulders and whining for food, and two large variegated pigeons I named Glutton and Junior. Glutton was overbearing, but Crapper and I double-teamed him and that set Glutton straight.
I observed that PB also was a formidable fighter. But she fought dirty and would go for another bird's gut. There was no question: my balcony belonged to PB and Crapper. In the mornings they would wait for me to put out clean water and fresh seeds, and Crapper would strut and offer his greeting. PB would sometimes coo softly. The other pigeons would arrive shortly afterwards and jockey for position at the feeders. Once the pigeons ate their fill, the smaller, more timid doves arrived, and the little finches and sparrows. Eventually I learned to imitate the finches and they would respond with assorted chirps and squeaks. But the pigeons – especially Crapper and PB --remained my favorites, my stalwart companions.
Part 5 – Conclusion
I've come a long way from the days when I called pigeons 'rats with wings' and chased them with the end of a broom. My avian visitors have added much to my life. In stressful times they listen quietly to my laments, cocking their heads as if in consideration of my words. In times of joy they seem to sense and share in my exuberance. It is difficult to tell how much is observation, and how much my interpretation.
The birds are free agents, of course, and come and go at will. But their sociability and apparent intelligence have earned my respect. They taught me something about themselves. A friend half-jokingly suggested the pigeons are my "spiritual guides". I might not go that far, but I do believe nature speaks to us in myriad and often mysterious ways; we have only to learn how to listen. I can credit the pigeons with that. They also assisted me to hone my observation skills as an artist, and their influence helped me gain more mastery of the brush -- all priceless gifts. They touched my life and I am forever changed.
END
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