Copyrights reserved by the author. If you are in doubt, please click on 'Copyrights' and read the details.The straight poop on the pigeon menace by J. G. Fabiano Every year there seems to be a new form of pest that attempts to make the summer a little less enjoyable. A few years ago an army of Japanese beetles devoured everything that was green. Those ‘Sons of Beetles’ were a hearty bunch but with the help of chemical engineering I was able to beat them back. Of course my skin now has the consistency and color of an old alligator, but what is progress without a little inconvenience? hen a plague of voles raised their furry little heads from out of the ground and made my yard look like a road map of Boston during The Big Dig. They were defeated with the assistance of some M-80’s and an old golf club. What I did not know was that the pest of 2004, would have neither a shell nor fur. This newest menace came in the form of a stupid bird. If I had to compare it to a person it would be a person who would rather drink a keg of beer than breathe. On top of this bowling ball body was a very small head, which, one would assume, would mean a very small brain. But, what they lacked in brainpower they made up for in numbers and, after a couple of months trying to outwit the little varmints, I discovered, collectively at least, pigeons were smarter than me. I first noticed them this spring. They flew onto my birdbath, like a gang, scaring away the prettier birds I was trying to attract. They couldn’t feed from the bird feeder I had suspended above the birdbath because they were too damn big. In order to release the seeds from the feeder they would knock the feeder around by head-butting it, thus making the seeds fall to the ground. Then they would swarm the fallen seeds, taking out the flowers I had hoped would thrive around the birdbath. At first I enjoyed watching these overstuffed flying pillowcases push my feeder around then fight each other for the food that fell out. I wasn’t too thrilled about the loss of my flowers, but I thought it was a small price to pay for the entertainment I was getting. Then their population started to grow. I have no idea where they came from or where they nested, because I never noticed any young birds intermixed with the adults. I assumed they just sprang to life from underneath some old garbage dump. I started noticing scores of pigeons lining up on the peaks of my neighbors’ homes. I watched in horror as my neighbors’ dark shingles turned white after these eating-machines processed the seeds of my birdfeeder into the kind of thick white viscous guano that couldn’t be removed without a pressure hose and industrial strength detergent. At first I felt compassion for my neighbors as the birds turned their perfect Oceanside homes into not-so-perfect homes that looked like they belonged somewhere in the inner city. It then occurred to me that if this newest of pests was attacking my neighbors’ homes – what must they be doing to mine? I walked out into the middle of the yard to look at my roof and to my horror saw that there were at least a couple of dozen of the feathered fiends perched along the peak. I think I saw one of them raise its wing and point at me and then I saw all the tiny pigeon heads turn and stare down at me in a kind of challenge. I knew at that moment I was once again at war with nature. The next morning I was awakened by the sound of hundreds of bird feet on my roof. I had never heard this before but I assume the king pigeon had summoned all his troops to my house to begin battle. I ran downstairs and went out onto my deck, where I felt thousands of little rocks beneath my feet, and learned that there are two types of pigeon poop; one that has the consistency of Elmer’s Glue and the other, which hardens into little black and white pebbles and which no rain can wash away. Before I could even look up at my roof I felt a rather large stone bounce off the top of my head leaving a nasty wet impression that I though must be blood. The ‘stone’ turned out to be a pellet of hardened pigeon doo-doo with an outer shell of soft guano. The little buggers had discovered artillery. I then ran into my garage, grabbed an old tennis ball and went out into my front yard to return fire. I did my best to aim the projectile at what I though was the king pigeon and launched it as hard as I could. To my surprise the ball went exactly where I wanted it to go. For a few microseconds I was convinced I was going to knock off the king, thus ending the war. To my amazement the bird turned in time to see the ball bearing down on it, stepped neatly aside, and my tennis ball disappeared harmlessly over the back of the house. The king pigeon then went back to chatting with his pigeon pals, totally unconcerned by my counter-attack. Not only had I not driven it off my roof, I hadn’t even ruffled its feathers! For the next few weeks I went from tennis balls to baseballs and never scored a single hit, though I did manage to bean my next-door neighbor while he was hosing down his driveway. I used an air horn in an attempt to drive them away, only to have them coo back in unison as though they were talking to a long lost pal. All this time my neighbors watched in idle amusement as I tried to drive off this newest pest. A few of them even brought out chairs, beer and popcorn because they knew from past experience that I wouldn’t give up until either the birds had been defeated or my house and property were in ruins. I then did what any intelligent man would do. I went to my computer and looked up how to get rid of the feathered pests. I discovered that if you put a stuffed owl on your roof the pigeons would believe it was a predator and be afraid to go anywhere near your house ever again. Off I went to the Kittery Trading Post where I bought the biggest replica of an owl I could find then planted it atop my roof, next to the chimney, knowing this would assure me of ultimate victory. The next morning I poured myself a cup of coffee and strolled out into my yard to observe the effects of my trick. I looked up at the roof and spilled half my coffee – because there was no sign of the owl. Nothing to suggest it had ever been there but there were a couple of dozen pigeons up there swaggering around, chuckling to each other. The old fake owl trick huh? Like they hadn’t seen that before! Frantically I ran around the house looking for my expensive fake predator, only to find it in the shrubs at the back, covered in the ultimate insult. Yes, they had thrown my owl off the roof then pooped all over it. Every year there seems to be a new form of pest that attempts to make the summer a little less enjoyable. This year I’m learning to live with pigeons! THE END
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