Pigeons are weird. First, they are dumb. Then, they’re prolific procreators. That combination, in my (non-judgemental, cough) opinion, makes them quite perverted. There is a particular pigeon I know of, who sits on the sill of the tiny window of the equally tiny washroom of my office, and s/he is definitely voyeuristic. Given that it is a unisex washroom, we shall bypass any discussion about the said pigeon’s sexual preferences. Instead, we shall learn about the day I first met this absolutely valorous, fearless and badass creature.
So, it was a fine, ordinary day when I was washing my hands with the very pink, liquid soap (hygiene must be doubled in office loo, but that’s another story for another day) after my business, I heard this faint coo. My eyes immediately shot up towards the ceiling, for I’ve had previous, nasty experiences of aviary creatures stranded on ceiling fans and tube lights and even hooks on the walls, using your shirt as their washroom. Pushing aside the mental image of becoming a loo in a loo (ooooh, looception!), I tried to wrap up quickly. Coo. Again. I would have simply ignored the cooing if I did not finally spot a pair of sharp, beady eyes looking at me through the blinds of the window. I will not lie, it spooked me a little, momentarily. Coo, coo. “Shoo!” I said. Coo, coo. It bobbed its head, but stared at me resolutely. “Shoo! Shoo!” I said again, this time flapping my arms at the bird. Coo, coo. Oh dear god, I thought, it’s mocking me! I made a striking gesture at it. It made a pecking gesture at me. That’s when I realized, it wasn’t afraid of me. It was probably too stupid to know that I could throw a wet mop at it and drench its feathers, rendering it incapable of flying, leaving it to be preyed on by a stray cat or something. While I stood contemplating the various gruesome deaths I wanted to subject it to, it stared at me unblinkingly, making faint gurgling noises. “So, you think you’re some badass, huh? I’ll teach you, you pervert... Staring in through loo windows, shameless creature!” I muttered. I wanted to keep it distracted, while I gathered some water from the tap in my cupped palm. “Take that!” I practically yelled, jerking the water towards it with all my force. It hit the glass and dripped along the length in long, morose, grimy lines. The pigeon looked at me, almost pityingly, moved a little along the length of the sill, pecked at its feet and I swear I am not making this up, slowly curved its neck and gave me a patronizing nod.
Needless to say, I left the battlefield, head hung in defeat, while my adversary stood its ground with all its pea-brained pride intact. I was completely absorbed in my own misery, walking the walk of shame back to my seat of despair. My colleague and next-desk neighbour looked at me questioningly. “Stupid pigeon on the loo window. Wouldn’t budge. Was throwing some water at it.” I tried to make the whole episode sound necessary. She raised her eyebrows. “Mm-hmm.” was all she said.
So, it was a fine, ordinary day when I was washing my hands with the very pink, liquid soap (hygiene must be doubled in office loo, but that’s another story for another day) after my business, I heard this faint coo. My eyes immediately shot up towards the ceiling, for I’ve had previous, nasty experiences of aviary creatures stranded on ceiling fans and tube lights and even hooks on the walls, using your shirt as their washroom. Pushing aside the mental image of becoming a loo in a loo (ooooh, looception!), I tried to wrap up quickly. Coo. Again. I would have simply ignored the cooing if I did not finally spot a pair of sharp, beady eyes looking at me through the blinds of the window. I will not lie, it spooked me a little, momentarily. Coo, coo. “Shoo!” I said. Coo, coo. It bobbed its head, but stared at me resolutely. “Shoo! Shoo!” I said again, this time flapping my arms at the bird. Coo, coo. Oh dear god, I thought, it’s mocking me! I made a striking gesture at it. It made a pecking gesture at me. That’s when I realized, it wasn’t afraid of me. It was probably too stupid to know that I could throw a wet mop at it and drench its feathers, rendering it incapable of flying, leaving it to be preyed on by a stray cat or something. While I stood contemplating the various gruesome deaths I wanted to subject it to, it stared at me unblinkingly, making faint gurgling noises. “So, you think you’re some badass, huh? I’ll teach you, you pervert... Staring in through loo windows, shameless creature!” I muttered. I wanted to keep it distracted, while I gathered some water from the tap in my cupped palm. “Take that!” I practically yelled, jerking the water towards it with all my force. It hit the glass and dripped along the length in long, morose, grimy lines. The pigeon looked at me, almost pityingly, moved a little along the length of the sill, pecked at its feet and I swear I am not making this up, slowly curved its neck and gave me a patronizing nod.
Needless to say, I left the battlefield, head hung in defeat, while my adversary stood its ground with all its pea-brained pride intact. I was completely absorbed in my own misery, walking the walk of shame back to my seat of despair. My colleague and next-desk neighbour looked at me questioningly. “Stupid pigeon on the loo window. Wouldn’t budge. Was throwing some water at it.” I tried to make the whole episode sound necessary. She raised her eyebrows. “Mm-hmm.” was all she said.
