PATIENCE

Tiffany raised the blind and let the birdcage cover—embroidered with streams of diamantes—sparkle in the morning light before she slipped it off and unlatched the cage. Elvis cocked his head and winked at her with a flat, orange eye. 

She stepped back and the pigeon flapped to the door, looked left and right, then flew two laps of the room before skidding onto the floorboards beside the couch. 

“Best behaviour today, Elvis,” said Tiffany.

Elvis stuttered his morning song, head bobbing, neck flashing hot magenta.

Sam came down the stairs in sweatpants and a t-shirt, rubbing an eye. 

“Don’t forget Columbia’s coming for dinner,” said Tiffany.

“Tonight?” said Sam.

“Didn’t you get my message yesterday?”

“Phone died. No messages.” 

“Well I’m messaging now.”

“But doesn’t she hate pets?”

“It’s a leftist thing. Caged animals or whatever. She’ll be fine. I told Elvis to behave.”

Then Tiffany remembered. 

Below Nelson’s column in Trafalgar Square. A pigeon shat that gluey white clump onto Columbia’s hair. 

“In some cultures, that’s considered good luck,” said Tiffany.

Her comment was not well received. 

MORSE’S CURSE

After Samuel Morse made them redundant and the subsequent loft evictions left them homeless, urban pigeons had little choice but to move into squares, plazas and parks. They suffered, not only from a rapid decline in living conditions, but also from a profound lack of purpose. Today, few spare a thought for the descendants of royal emissaries (referred to in pigeon lore as Sons and Daughters of Hermes) who once dined on fig seeds on silver plates, now fallen to pecking for crumbs dropped from a tourist’s hot dog bun.

Historically, city authorities have had a complicated relationship with them. Forty-five percent of urban park and recreation directors view pigeons as a nuisance whose presence impedes people’s enjoyment of park resources. A quarter disagrees. The remainder have no strong opinion. 

Deterrence, rather than elimination, is the favoured response.

In some municipalities, spikes line tree branches, parallel strands of electrified wire run along ledges or fake hawks guard gables. Some use netting, high-frequency sound emitters or sprinklers. Citizens have also taken matters into their own hands. So-called porcupine hats, topped with spikes, for example, were fashionable last summer in Milan. 

Recently, authorities have experimented with new methods. Officers in one municipality, for example, adopted a sympathetic, problem-oriented approach, treating each pigeon as an individual with specific needs. Unfortunately, this experimental trial, which is yet to yield enough data to assess its success, is unlikely to be renewed due to budgetary constraints. 

COLUMBIA’S GUILT MANIFESTS AS JEALOUSY

Elvis hopped onto Sam’s shoulder. Columbia sat on the couch opposite, warily eyeing the bird. Tiffany noted Columbia’s new bob and bang. A straight black block. Like Cleopatra. Cleopatra. Great name for a pigeon.

“How was the gig last night?” asked Sam.

“A warm-up for our up-coming tour,” said Columbia.

Her last chance band, thought Tiffany. Two talentless cousins on bass and guitar who look like they’ve just been dragged from a basement video-game session and an unreliable drummer. 

Columbia hunched as Elvis hopped onto the back of the couch.

“It’s not that I’m against birds. As a child, I was a conscientious objector during the Elimination of Pests Campaign. One night, I even helped pull spikes from ledges.”

Is it jealousy? Tiffany wondered. After all, Elvis has natural talent, and the Madonna-Gaga-Columbia lineage is a fast-disappearing dream. True, she once played beach volleyball against Shakira and her dancers. Athletic and enthusiastic, said Columbia after the game, Shakira has strong vibrato but she’s far too short for volleyball. 

Columbia sat erect and sang. 

“A bird on the wing is a wonderful thing.”

Elvis nodded his head from side to side. 

“See?” said Sam, “Elvis is your number one fan!”

Tiffany meditated on the agglomeration of white tropes in Columbia’s dark curls. We were waiting for the protest march to begin. At the scream, a nearby child in a stroller pointed and began to cry. Columbia insisted we go back to the hotel. 

Columbia finished the song and Elvis hopped from the couch and bobbed along the floorboards, jabbing at invisible seeds.

“He likes most musical styles,” said Sam. “Only EDM stresses him out.”

She blames me for Trafalgar Square, thought Tiffany. But we might’ve stopped the war if it weren’t for her. 

COUNTRY COUSINS

Compared to their metropolitan relatives, rural pigeons face a wholly different set of circumstances. Those in the countryside are often “invisible” due to the common misperception of them as simply another species revelling in nature’s bounty. Nothing is further from the truth. Foxes, hawks and owls prey upon them. Resources are scarce and they face the constant threats of drought, floods and wildfires. 

Rural pigeons think their plaza-dwelling relatives—with their endless supply of dropped crumbs, fountains to bathe in and cornices under which to roost—have it made. Yet they have one small consolation: their unique music. Rural pigeons travel in small choirs, famed for their dawn chorus. It begins with gleaming harmonies on the sun’s first rays, then undulating rhythms colour the sky and swirl together into an ecstatic landscape. 

FAMOUS PIGEONS IN HISTORY AWAITING A FULL-LENGTH BIOGRAPHY

G.I. Joe

Cher Ami

Commando

Mary of Exeter

Winkle

IN WHICH PICASSO IS HAILED AS A FRIEND OF PIGEONS

Elvis strutted in front of the lava lamp, his neck-flecks flashing green and pink against the syrupy bubbles.

“Are they capable of affection?” asked Columbia.

“Elvis is a sire of the San Marco flock,” said Sam. “Italians are passionate. It’s genetic.”

Columbia rolled her eyes. 

“You should hear him sing opera,” said Sam. “Even at moments of maximum tragedy, his voice brings a sun-bright Mediterranean quality to the sadness.”

“I haven’t heard him sing a note,” said Columbia.

“It takes him a while to warm to people. He could be intimidated.”

“Pigeons are highly intelligent,” Tiffany added. “Their vision system is particularly complex. They can even recognize different people in photographs.”

“In Japan,” added Sam, “scientists trained pigeons to differentiate between paintings by Monet and Picasso. By the end of their study, the pigeons could identify paintings by each artist, even works they hadn’t seen before.”

“Which did they prefer?” asked Columbia. 

“Picasso, of course. Pigeons were a favourite subject of young Pablito,” said Sam. 

“One appears in Guernica. They proved a muse for many modernists,” added Tiffany. 

“That figures,” said Columbia, “I’ve always thought of them as an old man bird.” 

“They’ve adapted,” Tiffany protested, “it’s a natural response. They’d prefer to be back among the heather, flocking together, cracking stalks and scratching for grubs.”

“They have scrawny, old man’s legs,” said Columbia. 

“How about I order take-out?” said Sam.

AN INTERVIEW WITH AN ART HISTORIAN

“Security at the Metropolitan Museum have released footage of the flock. Have you seen it?”

“I’ve seen them myself, beside the steps out front. Pecking at crumbs. Waiting.” 

“Waiting?”

“For an opportunity to slip in

“To the Museum?”

“To defecate on Morse’s painting.” 

“Morse? Inventor of the Code?”

“That’s him. I find his painting—a portrait of his daughter—overly sentimental but many patrons like it.”

“Does the threat worry you?”

“Professionally, I worry. Personally, my feelings are mixed.” 

“But isn’t your role to praise and protect?”

“I also sympathize and empathize. Unprofessional, perhaps, but she was far from innocent.”

“The daughter?”  

“In addition to inheriting her father’s sins, she married a plantation owner.”

“So, you’re in favour of removal?”

“Of the pigeons? No.”

“Of the daughter?”

“You can see in her eyes how miserably she died.”

“And what of the well-known Japanese experiment? Are you concerned?”

“Concerned? On the contrary. It’s time for us to elevate avian innovation.”

“I mean professionally. Won’t it make art historians redundant?”

“In addition to the Met plot, British intelligence uncovered a plot to topple Nelson’s statue. They aim to claim their rightful place atop Trafalgar Square.” 

“Another plot? And you’re not concerned?”

“We art historians have nothing to fear. We are, after all, only the messengers.” 

THE STRUGGLE

Few appreciate the magnitude of the first great avian innovation. It was pigeons who discovered how to use the earth’s electromagnetic forces for navigation and communication. Morse, of course, never acknowledged the debt he owed them for electro-magnetic telegraphy. In fact, such was his contempt and attempt to divert attention that he frequently—intentionally—confused pigeons with penguins. 

Do they harbor bitterness? 

Consider the fact that contemporary pigeons rarely alight on wires. And, of course, the revolutionaries.

Today, the most infamous insurrectionist group call themselves the Martha Brigade, in memory of the last passenger pigeon, in memory of a billion slaughtered brethren. These low flying flocks of the Santa Clara Valley have studied Che Guevara. Their East Coast comrades aim to establish a Temporary Autonomous Zone in Lafayette Square beside the White House. Both factions consider themselves the revolutionary vanguard and are waiting for the necessary favourable conditions. Peaceful co-existence is no longer a goal.

ANOTHER PABLO

According to a new biographer, Hemmingway trained a pigeon named Pablo to fly from Havana to his Key West home with a cigar. Pablo would arrive every afternoon at around four with a Cuban in his beak and Papa would sit on the porch and smoke the Cuban with a couple of whiskeys. Hemmingway scholars argue that this story is the latest attempt to rehabilitate the great white hunter who, in his Paris days, would regularly blast flocks of pigeons with his shotgun. Although this particular story remains contentious, various sources confirm that when Papa met Picasso, the subject of pigeons was studiously avoided by both men. 

THE MESSAGE

Sheened like a rainbow in an oily puddle, Elvis bobbed at invisible seed beside the lava lamp. 

“Do you remember what happened to me in that square in London?” asked Columbia.

Tiffany nodded.

“Nature was trying to tell you something.”

“But what?”

Elvis flapped his wings, side-eyed Columbia, and winked.

“It’s winking at me,” said Columbia. 

The bird bobbed towards her.

Columbia drew up her legs and hugged her knees. 

“Stop it winking at me,” she said.

“Elvis won’t hurt you,” said Sam as he scooped up the pigeon. 

“He loves it when you stroke his neck like this. His feathers are like velvet.” 

“No! Get it away,” said Columbia as she stood and stepped back. 

The doorbell rang.

Sam set Elvis down on the floor, opened the door, took the cardboard boxes from the hooded figure and put them down on the table. 

“Kung Pao chicken chow mien,” said Sam as he went to the kitchen to get bowls. 

Columbia opened a box, picked out a chicken cube and dropped it onto the floor. 

Elvis flapped after it and pecked at the chicken.

“Aha!” said Columbia as she sat back on the couch. “See? A cannibal, an evil little can…”

That’s when it happened. 

A violent crash, tinkling glass and a brick skidded across the floor.

Columbia screamed. Tiffany held her knees.

Elvis flew wildly, lapping the room before he slipped out the fresh hole in the window.

Sam ran to the window and watched the pigeon wheel once under a red lamp then disappear into the darkness.

Shaking, Tiffany pulled off the scrap of paper that was taped onto the brick and read it aloud.

“A patient waiter is no loser.”

“He’ll come back, won’t he?” sniffed Tiffany. 

“Homing’s in their DNA,” said Sam.

He was wrong. 

It was the last time they ever saw Elvis.

by D.J. Huppatz

D.J. Huppatz lives and writes in Naarm/Melbourne, Australia. He is the author of two poetry books, Happy Avatar (Puncher and Wattmann, 2015) and Astroturfing for Spring (Puncher and Wattmann, 2021). He also writes about design and architecture. You can find it here:- djhuppatz@bigpond.com