His Eye is on the Sparrow

Okay, it’s not really a sparrow, it’s a pigeon. Or multiple pigeons. It’s not possible to have just one anyway, is it? Years ago, we started out with a couple of pigeons on our roof. I think what happened was that one of the neighbors started raising them, and then changed their mind. I could be wrong, but it would certainly explain why they suddenly showed up.

In the beginning they weren’t too much of a problem, except they kept eating the food we put out for the stray cats. They liked it. A lot. Our food bill went up considerably and so did the car-washing expenses. We didn’t have a garage or carport back then and my car made the perfect target. On the surface it doesn’t seem like a few pigeons could really make that much of a mess, does it? Well, they don’t. But did I mention they really liked the cat food? So much, in fact, they called in all their buddies. And because pigeons don’t have too much of a life, they were happy and content. That means, in the world of pigeons, “Hey, this is great! Let’s live here forever and start a family.”

Eventually we had about a billion pigeons that hung around our house. Not all the time, mind you, but when one of us got home from work, they were waiting on the roof for us. They knew the routine. We’d go in the house and get the cat food. After we put the cat’s food out, we’d go to the 50-pound sack of pigeon food and get them their dinner. Yep, that’s right. We decided that there would be less mess and it would be cheaper if we just bought them their own food. So now we had spoiled rotten pigeons that hung around. With all their friends.

When I was in high school, I lived on a farm and my dad raised pigeons. We had pigeon coups with automatic watering systems, the whole works. Kind of like a chicken farm, but with pigeons. When they got old enough, we’d crate them up and someone would come get them and take them to market. Squab, a restaurant delicacy, is nothing more than a young pigeon. And they don’t taste too bad—Daddy made sure that we had a lot of pigeons to eat. Mostly because it was cheap and convenient. I haven’t eaten any since I left the farm and probably never will.

Since I have that kind of background, it’s not too surprising that we were feeding pigeons in the suburbs, is it? When I was cooking dinner, I could hear them through the vent over the stove. There’s something relaxing about hearing pigeons cooing all the time. Kind of took me back in time.

That’s the up side. The down side is they’re a major pain in the you-know-what. I thought about putting a statue in the backyard just so they’d be really comfortable, but gave up on that idea. They like the patio, the eaves of the house, the air vent spaces into the attic, etc. for living, so a statue would be pointless. Oh, sure, it’s easy for you to say, “Just stop feeding them and they’ll go away.” You don’t understand. They were happy here. We tried feeding the cats on the front stoop and not feeding the pigeons, but they found out where we were hiding the food. They have very good eyesight, I guess. We finally threw in the towel and decided we could all just live in peace, with us buying them their own food.

It makes me wonder if God had someone like me in mind when He put that part in the Bible about watching over sparrows. He didn’t mention pigeons, but I’m pretty sure He meant all birds and not just the sparrows. I can’t see Him wanting to just protect them when cardinals and blue jays are so pretty. It’s a nice thought that He knew I would take care of His little creatures, but I wasn’t sure how long it could continue.

We own a house next door to us that we rent out. Luckily, they didn’t seem to mind having pigeons flying over and walking on their roof. But they drew the line when the birds started getting into their laundry room. Come to find out, the pigeons had managed to destroy the soffit under one of the eaves, which gave them easy access to the attic and the laundry room. These are old houses where we live and I don’t think the builder envisioned having to take pigeon control measures when he built them. So that takes us to a memorable escapade of the man I married.

We were very close with the neighbor behind us, so Ed called Bill to help him repair the soffit and get rid of the pigeons. (Note: Our wonderful, loving neighbor passed away in February. RIP, Bill. You are sorely missed!) I would say about here that Ed soliciting Bill’s help would be akin to the blind leading the blind, but I’m feeling particularly benevolent today. So I won’t say it. Misery loving company, Bill brought his son Billy to help out. I helped by staying as far away as I could.

And here’s how it went. After they had been doing this for a few hours, Ed came back home to tell me that Bill had fallen through the ceiling. That surprised me, since I had really envisioned Ed being the one to do that. The two of them had gone into the attic to try and chase the pigeons out. During this process, two things happened. Bill stepped through the ceiling and then proceeded to start having a heat stroke. San Antonio in the summer, in an attic, is not the coolest place on the planet.

Being the good sport I am, I took the appropriate course of action. I stayed away. After another hour or so, though, I just couldn’t resist checking on how it was going. Bill had gone home to cool down, leaving Ed and Billy to finish. Since I’m the best with a saw, I got called into service and cut the replacement soffit.

As I was relaxing after having done my part, I noticed a movement out of the corner of my eye. In a laundry basket was a pigeon. Barely moving. I asked Billy what had happened to the pigeon. He said that Ed and his dad had sprayed the pigeon with hornet spray since they couldn’t get it to leave the attic. What? Yes, you read that right, hornet spray. This would explain why Bill stepped through the ceiling, by the way. Karma.

After I stopped hyperventilating, I told Billy the pigeon was moving. So he picked it up to see if it was okay. I guess it was, because it started flapping its wings. This startled Billy and he dropped the pigeon. Okay, here’s a life lesson for you. Don’t EVER drop a dazed pigeon on the ground where a Labrador Retriever can see it. Sugar, my 12-year old at that time, can hardly move, 90-pound puppy got back every bit of energy she had ever lost. In fact, she was so fast I couldn’t even grab her. Were it not for the fact that Father was watching over His pigeon, I know what Sugar would have had for dinner.

The pigeon managed to fly away, albeit not in a very straight line. I’ve never seen a pigeon wobble and fly at the same time. So, the pigeon saga had a pretty good ending to it. At least, I think it did. We found a dead pigeon in the yard a few days later. I didn’t look at it closely to see if it was the same one…I didn’t want to know.

At any rate, the soffit got up, I painted it, and another friend came over and he and Ed repaired the ceiling. One of these days I might write about that five-minute project, but right now I’m getting too stressed out reliving the pigeon escapade.

All of this taught me a very valuable lesson. No, it’s not the one you think—to hire a professional for home chores. But the next time I start fretting about life, I’m going to focus in on the pigeon in the laundry basket. Father will take care of me. Under any circumstances. Granted, I may be a little bit wobbly, but in the end, I’ll be able to fly. I can’t think of a more comforting thought!