Sunday, October 10, 2010

I arrived at work yesterday morning to find the baby pigeon that lives in the awning above the front door of the bookstore flopping around upside-down on the sidewalk with two twentysomething hipsters towering oblivious above it, engrossed in a relationship-based conversation.  I went and fetched a ladder and a box lid.

CJB:  'scuse me.

HIPSTER #1:  D'ya mind?  We're tryin' to talk here.

CJB:  Look down, will you?

HIPSTER #2:  OH MY GOD!  Should we call the SPCA?

CJB:  Just stand back, please.

I slipped the box lid under the baby pigeon, which is butt-ugly, having lost about half its baby feathers, but only grown about half of its adult "flight" feathers.  It looks like a tiny molting turkey.   Then I climbed the ladder, carefully balancing the softly peeping cargo, and deposited it back in the nest it has more or less outgrown.  Finally I shoved an old piece of two-by-four sideways under the awning, to create a ledge big enough for the baby bird to rest on.

CJB:  You're welcome.

The baby's parents keep coming back to feed it, and I've spotted it a few times, peering over the edge of the nest, checking out the world.

GENE THE MAINTENANCE GUY:  Whatcha looking at?

CJB:  A baby pigeon.

GENE:  Mmmm.  Squab.

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