Sunday, Sept. 26, 2004 | 6:42 a.m.
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No Friend of the Pigeon
I used to be sort of neutral about pigeons. I mean, yeah, they can get pushy, and who can forget that Stephen King story, "The Ledge," wherein a very determined pigeon tries to peck out the heels of this poor schmuck trying to edge his way around the what was it? six inch? four inch? anyway, around this ledge of a skyscraper to save his butt from some dude he was cuckolding. But seriously, before we moved into this house? Live and let live with the pigeons.
No more of the peace with the pigeons. They roost in the eaves of this house. Truth be told, I think they are actually in the attic, though I've yet to pop my head up there to check it out. Where do they particularly concentrate? Right over my bedroom. Aside from the pecking and tapping around the window and eaves, which can be somewhat alarming at the dark hour of four AM when you wake up in a panic because you think someone is breaking into your house. But that's not the real problem. The real problem is all the goddamned sighing and moaning and cooing. It's like living under a whorehouse!
So they eat trash. Fine. Who am I to criticize someone's diet? They carry around nasty vermin? I'm not pointing fingers. Crapping down the side of the house? Okay, it's gross, but it's not my house, so I can live. But keep me from sleeping on the rare morning that Nina doesn't wake up at 5:30 AM? Now we have a problem.
We will be embarking on a pigeon relocation program on Monday. To where are they relocating? I don't really give a rat's ass. Just so long as it's not in the eaves of this house. I need my sleep. Otherwise, I get a little cranky.
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