Moving: The Good, the Bad and the Feathered

It was Monday morning and I felt especially annoyed. Even though the majority of boxes had been unpacked, my ‘issues’ with the various companies supplying me with essential services had far surpassed the “these things happen” phase. I was pissed. It was day three, and I still did not have a phone, any cable or internet. Not to mention the fact that my kitchen was defective and the dining room light looked like it would crash down and destroy everything in its path (it was hanging by a single wire, so this was a very real possibility). However, there was something a little more ominous that I discovered on this sunny morning. The Pigeons.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love all animals. Bunnies, kittens, puppies, fish, and even furry hamsters are wonderful pets. I love farm animals too, such as horses, cows, ducks, sheep, pigs and even chickens. Heck, I think the traditionally ‘ugly’ animals are adorable: warthogs, lizards, rats, skunks, bats…you get the picture. But birds are a different story. I don’t hate birds (at least not all birds). However after a certain incident where one tried to poke my eye out (thanks a lot Newton) I am somewhat cautious around them. They are sneaky and plotting creatures, yet for the most part the birds and I manage to co-exist. I leave them alone, and they leave me alone. Pigeons are a totally different story, as I found out.

I awoke to the sun beaming into my bedroom at around 6am, due to a lack of window coverings (I just moved in. Give me a break, sheesh!). I stood, stretched, put on my slippers and turned to open my window to circulate some air. There was no screen (still), so I figured I would chance it. A few bugs flying in wouldn't be the end of the world. I slid the two panes of glass over, and a wonderful fresh breeze of smog and city-smells flooded my room. Ahh, what a morning. The sounds of children swearing at their parents and distant gun fire provided a lovely backdrop to mom’s yelling if I was awake. (Ok, so there was no gun fire. Not yet at least).

I was looking out at the golf course behind my building, one of the only nice things to look at I might add, a fat little pigeon landed on my balcony railing. Just an FYI, my balcony stretches right across the back of my unit. So, if I ever needed to escape from an intruder, I could in theory climb out my window and jump to the balcony below me. Yes, I have been watching too many 007 movies and yes, I have been plotting and planning various ways of escape should a city-person enter my apartment. Anyway, this little bird looked at me, and I looked at the bird. The bird hopped a little closer to me, and I stepped back. Birdie started bopping his head, and I promptly shut the window.

“Mom, there is a pigeon on the balcony” I called to my mother, expecting her to wave her magic wand and fix the problem (she always has before!)

My mother grew up in the city. Toronto back in the stone-age was a different place though. They had things like milk delivered right to your door and 5 cent movies. Today 5 cents can’t get you anything. Even the homeless look down their nose at you if you give anything less than a five! Back to my mother. The city was different back then, but they still had pigeons.

“Leslie, pigeons won’t do anything too horrible. They may poop on your balcony, but they won’t bite!” Mom yelled back. I wasn’t too concerned about the bird poop, and I knew that pigeons would not bite (come on, I am not THAT ignorant), but she missed my point. I don’t like the shifty way they look at me. They KNOW that I don’t like them. And they plan on taking advantage of my weakness. They can smell fear.

By mid afternoon I had forgotten about my run in with Birdie. I had noticed a few of the dirty birds on my balcony throughout the morning, but they seemed not to notice me. They just bopped their little heads, lifted their tails, and made some eerie cooing noises. As long as they didn’t sense my presences, it was all good. So, by 1pm it was bloody hot in my apartment. We had retreated to the bedroom to finish off unpacking my shoes (three boxes!!!) and mom finally broke down and opened the bedroom window

“NOOOOO!! What are you doing mom? You can’t open that window. The Pigeons are out there”.

She cast me a “you are such a baby” look (or maybe it was the “you idiot. How can you be related to me?” look) and opened the window even further. Birdie was no where to be seen, so for the time being I relaxed and enjoyed the smog-breeze.

To solve the shoe storage issue I had purchased several wooden stackable shoe racks. I planned on stacking 4 or 5 of them in one corner of my bedroom, creating what I like to call ‘Shoeworld: The happiest place on earth for shop-a-holics”. It worked very well with the numerous hooks displaying my ample purse collection on the opposite wall. (This little gem of an area is called “Purse Land: Where buying one in every colour is the law”).

The problem with Shoeworld is it is not the most stable structure. Imagine 5 feet of shoes and Ikea-quality construction material. One false move and I would have a shoe avalanche. But, it managed to stay up! With one shoe left to place onto Shoeworld, I wanted to say a little speech and dedicate this engineering masterpiece to all those who perished during the construction of the Canadian Railway system, but mom was getting impatient with my antics so I quickly improvised an Oscar-like spiel of thanks, kept under two minutes of course.

That’s when it happened. Birdie appeared. At first all I saw was his shadow. The light was streaming into the bedroom, and when birdie landed on the railing his silhouette was cast on the back wall. I noticed the bobbing head and unusually plump figure (for a pigeon, he was a fatty), and knew my nemesis was back. I turned, and like a scene from a Western we prepared for a shoot out. Well, at least a staring contest.

Birdie bopped his head, and cooed a little. I placed the final shoe gingerly onto Shoeworld, not taking my eye off of this little Demon. Birdie lifted his left foot and kind of scratched the railing, kicking imaginary dirt behind him. I began to stand, getting onto my knees. My mother rolled her eyes.

Birdie squatted a little, preparing to take flight straight into my bedroom. I could see it in his little Beedy eyes, he meant business. He raised his wings, and I panicked. I had never been so near hand-to-wing combat before. I had no official training in war. My life flashed before my eyes, and I reached for any object I could to use as a weapon. I grabbed the ceremonial ‘last shoe’ in preparation for Birdie’s attack.

That’s when it happened. The heel caught on one of the wooden bars of Shoeworld, and the entire structure came crashing down. Like an endless stream of ice and snow tumbling down the side of a mountain during an avalanche, my shoes bombarded me. I was left buried under a pile of strappy black sandals and shoe racks. I pulled myself out of the rubble and watched as Birdie bopped his head in satisfaction, then flew away. Shaking a red high-heel at Birdie as he flew away, I muttered: “This is just the beginning Birdie. You might have won the battle, but I will win the war”.