For reasons we can’t explain, this morning we noticed a cluster of people reading this nearly decade-old feature about pigeon feet. We figured we might as well drag out the piece and dust it off for everyone to read. — Eds. Note
My story begins with a pigeon trying to get laid. This happened not too long ago at the bus stop across the street from the Mecca Cafe on Lower Queen Anne. The traffic on the street was heavy and loud. The sun was beating in the middle of a clear blue sky. And on an area of sunbaked sidewalk beside the bus shelter, this male pigeon had forgotten that the world all around it existed and was completely focused on the ancient trick of puffing itself up to appear bigger than it actually was. The female had her back/tail to him, but he kept trying to get her attention by walking in circles and bobbing his head up and down, as he emitted strange sounds from deep within his exaggerated throat. All the female wanted to do was peck at the little bits of tips and dust on the sidewalk in peace. But the more the female ignored the male’s performance, the bigger became his body, the faster his circles, and the louder his throaty sounds. He was so convinced that he could impress her successfully with the very same dance, the same noises, the same head business that all other males of his kind employ to seduce females.
This small moment in the time of my life would have entered oblivion (my bus arrives, I board the bus, the bus departs, and I never think about those birds ever again) if it had not been for one thing: All four toes on the male pigeon’s right foot were missing. Its left foot was fine (toes, nails, everything), but its right one was no better than the nub of a crutch. And so, not only was he bobbing his head like a human whose brain has been turned to mush by mad cow disease and making sounds that, if amplified, could be used by the pro-torture members of our intelligence community to break the will of the most fanatical terrorists—not only that, but he was also hobbling on a stump like some sea-addled pirate from the old days of planks, buckles, bandannas, and skull flags. Indeed, the bird’s gait was so wobbly that each step it took seemed barely able to prevent the horny thing from collapsing into a sad heap of feathers and shame.
