“Coo-coo-coo <beat> coo-coo-coo <beat> coo-coo-coo.”
Understand, I don’t hate animals. I rather like them, actually, or at least the ones with fur that make pleasent yipping and meowing and braying sounds. Bears are very interesting and not nearly so scary as you might think. Snakes are fine, too, as long as they aren’t in my sleeping bag. Dolphins, whales, sea lions, sea otters, I all rather like. I even have a soft spot in my heart for the much maligned class of cephalopodia. Heck, some of my best friends are octopuses. My favorite childhood memories are hearing the crickets scrape and collecting lightning bugs. The occasional parrot is quite all right, and I envy the eagle for its ability to soar majestically.
But there’s one thing I cannot stand, and that is a pigeon.
I despise the bloody things. The crap everywhere. They flock upon your while you’re eating a sandwich under the blue sky, and peck at every scrap. If you are inattentive, even for a moment, they’ll nip away at your packet of crisps, drink from your beer, and steal your napkins. They are, even of the aves which I like least of all classes, the worst of the bunch, the vertable Pauly Shore of avarians.
The particular bird, or rather pair, as they always come, like fungal infections, in twos, are assessing the posibility of nesting the gable above my bedroom. I look forward, every morning, to waking up to the grating “coo-coo-coo” sound of pigeons informing the world that their disease-ridden bodies are up for another day of theivery, petty harassment, and general nusience-making.
I’d blast them into oblivion, if I could. As it stands, I have only a slingshot with half-inch marbles to try to warn them off. I am, though, no Tom Sawyer with the slingshot and the greatest risk is not to be birds but the windows of my neighbors. greatly limiting my acceptible lines of fire.
I hate pigeons.
Well, you can’t care about every damn thing.[sup]1[/sup]
With apologies to Douglas Adams