Le French Pigeon
A picture tells a
thousand words. So, since we failed to take a photo, here's the thousand words
to describe what happened.
A short story, from the point
of view of Le Pigeon we saved. On Feb 26, 2018. As told by Le Pigeon to her owner,
back in Puicheric’s Notre-Dame church, where she delivered the message she was
carrying, her duty done, though it was a day late.
She was a homing pigeon. And a beauty. Nothing like the boring shades of grey
so commonly found. Instead, shades of brown and white, streaks of brilliant
blue and green hues. On her way back to Puicheric to deliver her message from
Toulouse, she stopped by to drink, eat a little, and replenish in Carcassonne. Pecking and sipping peacefully along the banks of the canal by the bridge, enjoying a brief sunny moment
of respite.
A hit, a splash, all of
a sudden the pigeon found herself in the canal, overwhelmed by ice cold water. Whatever it was, it knocked the breath out of her, caused her to flail and splash about, unable to fly off. Trying over and over again, flapping her wings,
kicking her feet, but failing to get any lift, trapped in the vise grip of the
water’s clingy surface. She gasped, she choked, she kept on struggling to get
lift with her wings. She felt them grow weaker and weaker, losing strength,
weaker flaps, slower kicks. With her remaining strength, she used her wings to
slowly row and drag her body towards the edge of the canal. The bank was too
high, she could not get up on the ledge, and the water was freezing cold. Try
further up along the bank. There must be an opening, there must be a way to
climb out of the canal. Though she could barely feel her feet now, she had to
keep on trying.
Feet getting colder and colder, and weaker, I can barely move them. Must keep
moving, must get to the shore, must get out of the water. Wings, wings don’t
fail me now. Too high, the land is too high, can’t reach it. There, some overgrown
bushes there, get there, get under it; wait, rest, rest and recover my breath.
Stay here, stay out of sight, try to catch my breath first. Cold, it’s so cold;
but I am alive, I am floating, and I let my leaded feet dangle below me. Rest,
hide, and recuperate under this protective grassy cover.
Something suddenly swooped
under my belly. Before I knew what happened I felt a big hand lift me from the
water. A man. He carried me a few steps and put me down on a sun beaten patch
of grass, sheltered from the wind, and walked away.
I try to fly, to just
stand up. But I am too weak. I just lay there. Try to breathe, gather my
strength to try again. To no avail. My feet refuse to move. I can barely spread
my wings. I am paralyzed. I hear cars pass by on the bridge above. I hear
people’s voices. I see other pigeons go about their morning foraging by the
grassy patch nearby. But I am frozen in place. I hope the dogs I had seen don’t
come find me now.
I don’t know how long it was, but sometime later, again, the big hand swooped
under my belly and carried me over the bridge, into his boat. There, two other
humans.
The female trying to
trickle water on my beak from a straw. Silly girl, can't you see I am too weak
to even drink. And I certainly won’t give these humans the pleasure of seeing
me desperately thirsty or hungry. I will refuse to drink. I need to rest,
regain my strength, and get away. I can barely keep my eyes open. There she is
trying again. Now what. She had water in a teaspoon. I let some dribbles of
saliva out. I just want to sleep. They leave me alone. I want to sleep, but I
don’t trust them. But I must get some rest, I must get my strength back. Every
time those lead-footed humans stomp around in the boat though, I am startled. I
must stay partly awake. I must be on watch, on guard. What are their
intentions? Am I dinner? This IS France, pigeon is on the menu, I know.
They moved me. Look around. They have put me on the captain’s chair. Oh, big
hands is picking me up again. Aah, he's trying to blow dry me by the heater.
Nice. I still can't move my feet. I don't like being on my back. But aah, the
warm air feels good on my belly.
They leave me alone for a while. I am on a lower seat. They are having dinner.
Try to move. No. Try again. Quick, while they are distracted. Plop! I moved! But
ouch, I fell off and I can't get up. Feet failing me again. I spread my wings.
Nothing broken, but so weak. I’m on my back. Big hands come to the rescue
again. But I want OUT, and NOW! I try to move, I must move, get away. Flap my
wings. Flap whatever can move, just flap it.
They take me out. YES!
But no. I am free, but I cannot move. I use my beak to push up, again, try
again. No. Argh. Try again. I can't. I will try again. Let me breathe a little first.
Oh, but the wind. So strong. And it is cold. Cold and windy. Well, get me back
on my feet and I will know what to do, fly to that nearest tree. I can see it.
But I can't even stand up. Try again. No. Rest, rest for a little while. Let
the wind blow past. Rest. I will be strong again. Soon. It is night. I will
sleep. Here, out in the open, in the wind and cold, I will rest, embraced by
the night.
They pick me up. Again? It is not big hands. It's the girl. Small hands. She
brings me back inside the boat. Oh wait, I have a room. Yes, an improvement.
And on a soft bed of paper towels. Yes, I can poop. I do poop. And poop some
more. I use my beak to push myself up. No, I can’t. Rest. Rest and try again.
Wait, what's this? Water. And food? I shall not drink or eat. I will not show
them I wish to drink or eat. Stay focused. I need to get away. But aah, it is
warmer, and I am feeling a little better. And I am sleepy.
They are quiet now. Gone to bed? They leave me on the floor, in my room. Snug
and feeling a little safe and cozy inside a brown paper bag. I move to the
warmest corner. I sleep. I try. But here is the girl again, looking at me. The
same, I am the same can’t you see, I haven't morphed into a rabbit yet. And the
2 guys, they now take their turns looking at me.
Middle of the night, all quiet, no more stares, no more stomping around. I
drink, and drink and drink. Try to eat the stuff they left me. Nah, not for me.
Seeds, gimme seeds, not crumbles of stale bread. I smell sesame seeds, but they
are few and far between. Sleep beauty sleep. In peace and quiet.
Sometime later that night, I try spreading my wings. They work. Yes! And I
stand up. Yes! I managed to stand up. I will have to find a way to get out of
here tomorrow. Meantime, rest. Get stronger.
I hear them
stomp around. It is morning. Girl’s face peers into my home. Big
hands’ face peer into my home. I hear other voices. They have come
back with reinforcements. Girl opens the bag. Another girl peers in. French? Me
for lunch? I flap my wings, I must get away, I can stand now, I can fly now, I
must get away. The girl takes me, she holds me with both hands. I try to flap
my wings, she takes me out of the boat. Onto the grass, freedom! I flap and
flap. Lift off. I fly again. Quickly, high as I can on that nearest tree.
Stumbled a little on the first branch. It’s ok, get a grip. They work. My wings
work. I am free! Fly, I fly away, high and away, beating my wings strongly.
And
that is how I got back home. I didn’t look back. I heard clapping, and girl cheering, but I didn’t
look back until I reached Notre-Dame.
Scene of the rescue:
###
A stab at poetry...
Birds Of A Feather
Birds of a feather, they thought they were.
“Together forever”, they thought they’d swear.
Didn’t see the flaws beneath wings
Didn’t wish to notice broken things.
Only wishing to admire perfect plumes
Rich and fluffy, bathed in colorful tunes.
Only wishing to hear delightful chatter
While soaring amidst cloud nines together.
Didn’t wish to notice looming puffs.
Didn’t want to know a name called nimbus.
Only being human they were
Just like the rest of us, I now conjure.
Simply wishing to cling on tight
Anxiously fearing to miss outright
That fleeting beast called happiness.
That desperate need for togetherness.
Shakespeare, blame it all on Shakespeare.
“Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”
We were fooled fooled fooled, one and all
By a clever turn of phrase that day
He coined simply for a play.
Or were we?
###
To Be 28
Oh to be twenty eight.
Barely drawn, the hand of fate
Sprinkles of experience, tons of dreams
So bright, the future seems.
Three brilliant kids, millionaire by forty
Condo in New York, cottage in the country
Start-up venture, on Moore’s law trajectory
The dream continues, so relentlessly.
For the world is still an oyster
Pleasing the buds, if not the banker.
Shuck away, efforts are not wasted
A pearly gem, still to be discovered.
But ugly is, an oyster’s shell
Can one get past that ominous smell?
Would ambition trump compassion
In the race to scale a mountain?
But tasty is, a champagne pairing
Fatty morsels so rich and satisfying.
Brave the obvious and enjoy the ride
The journey has barely begun to feel quite right.
