The Curious Wild Bird Incident
Last night, I got home completely exhausted. I’d been in Istanbul just over a week. I sat in the comfy armchair to do some journaling. I heard some rustling above me. Usually that’s the dead leaves from the plant near the window. I heard it again, then looked up.
A tail was sticking out.
I jumped out of the seat and into the middle of the room. There, perched upon the curtain rod, was a pigeon.
A big pigeon.
I ran out of the room and closed the door. The door however, with this being an old apartment, doesn’t fully close. My nightmare kicked in: This pigeon flying out of the room and flapping and flailing all over the main room — or, heavens worse, my bedroom.
I took a chair and wedged it into the door, from the inside, essentially locking myself out. The wind though kept pushing it open. Then I took a long extension cord, tied it around the door handle, then wrapped it around the trash can next to it. Like this.
My first thought, actually, was of The Sopranos. When a bird comes into the house, they say a death is coming. So I spent twenty minutes looking up Reddit forums, which more or less confirmed my suspicions. Theories spanned beyond The Sopranos and held true across different cultures and belief systems. I got some relief, though, as the rules for pigeons are apparently different than regular birds, according to totems and folklore: A pigeon seems a little safer, but it’s an omen nonetheless.
I couldn’t go to bed. I kept checking the living room. I’d poke open the door and there he was: still be sitting there, staring at me, while standing here, staring at him, both of us wondering who the hell the other was and just what they were going to do.
Thing is, though, the guy wasn’t even budging. I’ve had a bird in the house once before. It got in through some repairs being done in the ceiling, and the thing flitted about the room like crazy before bolting out an open window. This guy, however, just sat there.
It was about 10:30pm. I figured the bird got lost or something and needed some shelter. I turned the lights off in the room and made sure the windows were open and easy to fly out of. I assumed he’d be out by morning, and I went to bed.
Just in case, I bolted my bedroom door shut.
The next morning, I got up and assumed he was gone.
He was not.
I wasn’t sure what to do. Obviously something was wrong with the bird. There was no food or water in that room, the window was wide open and easy to escape. And when I opened the door, it hardly stirred.
I texted the owner of the apartment, asking if this was normal. He simply replied, “Oh no!” Great. I looked up a local bird rescue, which I doubt would come over for a pigeon. So I did the next most sensible thing. I visited the cat doctor downstairs.
Down the street from me lived a Turkish man who was a self-appointed, self-certified cat doctor. I have a post forthcoming about him, so I won’t say too much now. But I figured, he’d be able to help.
I got down and showed him the picture. He pulled out his half-monocle to look. “Ahhhhhh,” he said sympathetically. He didn’t speak any English. In Google Translate, I asked what to do. He said, “When you go to America, I’ll send a woman up there to get it, she will bring him to me and he will be ok.”
“But I’m here another three days!” I texted back.
Now I pictured a dead pigeon laying on my living room floor, wide-eyed and rigor mortis, and me having to grab it and dispose of it.
“The last thing we want,” the doctor said via Translate, “is for the cats to get it.”
This is true. Just two days ago, I saw a black cat trap a pigeon and, along with its two buddies, shred the poor thing to pieces.
That said, I couldn’t help but think: One cat in my apartment and all of this is solved.
I lingered a bit longer, unsure what to do. Soon, this woman came up. I assumed she was Turkish and the doctor did too, as he started speaking with her. Fortunately, she spoke English. I showed her the picture of the bird and said I wasn’t sure what to do, etc. She wasn’t either. Yet for some reason, when I pointed out that I lived there, like, right there, she exclaimed, “Oh, let’s go save this bird!”
We walked to my building. I learned she doesn’t live here, nor is she Turkish. “I’m Persian,” she said. We got to my door. As I punched in the code, I asked if she’s afraid. “Oh no,” she said, “I’m a lover.”
We trudged up my four flights of stairs. She got in, kicked off her sandals, and went right to the room to catch a look.
“Where’s a stick, or a broom?” she asked. I handed her one.
I went into my room to get my camera. Before I even grabbed it, I heard wings violently flapping. I ran into the room, she’s swatting at the bird with the broom. Then it’s trapped on the windowsill, in the corner. The woman scooped up the bird with one hand, clutching it around its wings, like one of those claw machines in an arcade. “Ah yes, she said, “he’s definitely sick, look at him.” This orange gunky stuff was coming out of his eyes. Then, before I could say anything, she walked the bird over and flung him out of my fifth story window.
She turned to me. “Okay, bye!”
“Wait,” I said. “Do you want to wash your hands?”
“Oh, yes.”
