The Pigeon Connection

Spooky Mittens Reporting for Wastrel Magazine:

DAY 1

I woke this morning to the sound of little tiny claws colliding with the glass of my window. I didn't know that this is what the sound was at the time; I was still half asleep and in my mind it could have been anything from a meteor crashing into my bedroom to the after math of a dream. When the sound definitely became part of the waking world I was forced to look outside because sleep was long lost. And there it was, a killer pigeon (possibly infected with the avian influenza, - diagnosis unconfirmed).

Exaggeration is one of my stronger points, I will admit, but I promise given the chance this bird would have grown opposable thumbs and stabbed me in the spleen with a machete.

Sitting perched on the fence adjacent to my window it stared down at me as I peeked out beneath the blinds. Its eyes were blood red.

The crazy eye.

Its miniscule pupils darted about frantically. The little ball in its throat, the one I presume is usually used for cooing, pulsed. On the top of its head was a feathery spike that jutted back and forth.

Just as I thought I must have been imagining the sound and was ready to go back to the land of the dreaming, the evil grey ball fanned its tail feathers and flew full speed into my window. It flew, with very obvious experience in this practice, feet first like a predator after food. Then the sound of the claws and the glass. It fell somewhere between nails on a chalkboard and the grinding of teeth.

After the pigeon made contact it bounced backwards onto the ground and flew to its perch on the fence to repeat the act.

It was all too much for me. 6 am and being slowly hunted by a killer pigeon. With the constant clanging there was no way I could just ignore this assassin. All that was left for me to do was contemplate what I had done recently to cause me to become the subject of this cruel fate. Who sent this winged warrior?
Sitting, or rather half laying and half sitting, waiting for the racket to cease it never occurred to me that the bird just might not stop. But, after thirty minutes, then an hour, then two, real fear struck. The glass had to be getting thinner. It was going to get inside. I tried not to think about how it would feel to have my skin devoured by an ivory beak.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it ended. After the usual ten second interval between hits had long passed, I pulled the blinds just far enough to see out. The fence was bare. Had I imagined this strange encounter of the bird kind?


DAY 2

After 24 full hours of activity I had completely wiped from my memory the unpleasant awakening of yesterday. With time the incident became more amusing and less scary. It actually even became amusing that it was ever scary, especially to others who I told the story too. They laughed at my expense even when I tried to recreate in words the way the tiny eyes stared straight into my soul. Those tiny infection red eyes.

I should hardly have been surprised when this morning I awoke to the same sound. The little fucker was back.

Rage quickly started pumping through my veins and relinquished any possible fear before it even existed. I was going to kill it. I was going to cut off its tiny leathery feet and laugh when its bloody stumps whacked agonisingly into the glass. I was, but I was also tired and it would have taken a lot of energy to both catch and seriously wound the creature.

So instead, I sent my dog, a playful large German Shepard, to do the dirty work. Her goofy paws pounced against the fence while I watched eagerly from inside. The pigeon, easily fooled by the canine’s tough exterior, batted its wings and disappeared into the waning dawn. It wasn't dead, but at least it was gone.

As I went about my day I couldn't help noticing birds in a whole new light. They were watching my every move, everywhere I went. Following me. Communicating with each other. Something wasn't right.

In the car, they perched on street lights. At work, they plodded around on the concrete outside. On the way home, they glided over head.
Then it dawned on me...
This wasn't a mysterious coincidence. It all made perfect sense. I can't believe it didn't occur to me earlier.

Killer pigeons were obviously a secret component of the new Government anti-terror laws. Laugh if you will, but what better way is there to eliminate terror suspects?

Consider this: Habib Un-Australian is a prominent member of the Muslim community. The Government suspects him of terrorist activity (e.g. distributing newsletters in another language with suspicious pictures of cats that indicate that he may be planning a suicide bombing at a prominent cattery in N.S.W.) However, all the anti-terror police are otherwise occupied arresting even MORE dangerous terror suspects (yes, there are more sinister characters than Habib. Scary, I know) So, John Howard authorises the release of the trained pigeons to take care of the problem. Then, WAPOW! they brutally attack Habib leaving him for dead. Situation averted, the death is called a tragic accident and there’s no pesky interference from lefties or the media.

Everybody knows that pigeons can be trained to carry messages, so of course they can be trained to kill. Where else do you think all those tax dollars go? And those extra cents per liter you pay for petrol?

I knew I shouldn't have called Little Johnny a dendrophiliac - It means he likes to have sex with trees, Bush = tree, get it... haha. Wait, it isn't funny. I take it all back! Just make them stop!

Day 5

Must not sleep. Must secure all doors and windows. Shhhh. What was that? Yes please, I will have a cup of tea. Wait! Who are you talking to? There's no-one here. Get back under the table. Maybe If I wear a saucepan on my head it will protect my brains. Yes, what a good idea. I will have a cup of tea, no make it coffee. Shhhhhh. So tired. All around the fence now. So many birds. Sent by ASIO, or should I say CRAZIO. Hahahahahahahahaha. Shhhhh. They'll hear.

It's ok. I can feel myself creeping slowly into the safety of insanity. It will be much nicer there.