The Pigeon

We had a surprise guest recently who came to stay unexpectedly on a Saturday afternoon. He turned out to be the polite, unassuming type (that is he didn't assume to try and eat my food). When I'd established that I couldn't eat his food, and that he wasn't going to eat mine; I didn't find him all that fascinating to be honest however I was intrigued at one point to discover Phoebe doing her best to eat him.

So the story begins when I was trotting home with my Mum. What should we spot but a pigeon fluttering by the very front door to our building. Well it is not such an unusual sight in a big city to see an injured pigeon; but possiblly more unusual to see one that seemed to be doing his best to get in our front door. Well, I was about to tell him that we didn't want lodgers today thank you very much when my Mum's GOOD DEED came upon her and before I could warn her about parasites, mess and the fact that she wouldn't be able to fully attend to my needs AND the pigeon's, she'd scooped him up, and carried him upstairs, with me leaping at her knees, trying to tell her to reflect a little....

The pigeon had a broken wing. He was in good general health, and seemed a youngster but with one wing dragging uselessly by his side. Sure enough my Mum starting fussing about him, looking for cages in her cellar, finding suitable food, giving him the run of the garden, spending hours on the internet looking for pigeon refuges in Paris. Ha! I said, Pigeon refuges in Paris! You'll never find.... but you know she DID!

Le Societe Protectrice des Oiseaux des Villes is a curious establishment in the south of Paris at the very end of a southbound metro line 13. Curious because from the outside you would think that it is was just another in a line of terraced houses in the pleasant enough suburban town called Chatillon. Indeed except for the initials SPOV painted discreetly by the front door and a logo of a flying bird, it looks identical to its neighbours. Inside it couldn't be a more different story. Now I have to tell you that my Mum did not actually take me down to SPOV when she was dropping off our pigeon. She seemed to think that she would have enough trouble without me (huummmpphh!!) - did I tell you I can read her mind by the way? Indeed yes, you didn't think we were just pretty faces, us CKSs did you?

My mum was greeted in a friendly enough fashion by an elderly man who had perhaps one word of French and whose skills in English were perhaps no better. Russian - she thinks - on account of his saying ' da!' enthusiastically when she asked tentatively might he be inviting her to walk up the stairs? So walk up she did, up two steep dark staircases of that rather disapidated old house; the walls lined with bird posters, to the very top to a green door through which could be heard the sound of birds, many many birds.....

This door it turned out led into the main hospital ward; where pigeons of all sizes, descriptions, and ailments were contained in dozens of different cages, along with a smattering of other types of birds, notably a parrot in one of those typical bell-shaped parrot cages who didn't have a feather to his name.... What a strange, pitiful creature he seemed; naked and tender-skinned like that; my Mum's heart gulped, if a heart can be said to gulp.

Alright it might be a bit fanciful to say ' all sizes and descriptions' . Are pigeons so very different one from another? No doubt another pigeon thinks so. Suffice it to say that my Mum's heart was warmed by this evidence of care for one of the more neglected, and misunderstood elements of our city streets, the humble pigeon. She's always liked ' em ; she thinks that they humanise our cities which is a funny thing to say when you think about it! Me? Well, (yawn) as long as they keep their claws off my food I guess I can't see too much of a problem in their existance!

Anyway the happy ending to the story is that our youngster was examined by a very nice girl who had come to greet us as my mum wandered on the stairs, pronounced indeed to have a broken wing, along with lots of parasites (what did I tell you MUM?" ) and was duly powdered, had his wings taped snugly back into the correct position, and deposited into a cage with others of his own age... You see they even think of the generation gap and such problems at this wonderful refuge. I mean this poor youngster wouldn't have wanted to be put in with a group of fuddy-duddy old grand-daddy pigeons talking about the NINETIES or something, now would he?

So on behalf of my Mum a big thank you to those lovely folk at the Societe protectrice des oiseaux des villes, including the elderly lady with the grey braid, who sat quietly amongst the cages, phone to her ear, talking away, and never so much as glanced in my mum's direction while she was there. We wonder if she is the founder of that institution, the little known pigeon saint of the city; who has dedicated her later years to the plight of the city pigeon in all his perils.

Anyway, my Mum misses our pigeon sometimes. Oh come on Mum you have me?!! and would ou believe when she's out walking with me, I sometimes see her casting a furtive eye to the footpaths and gutters, where an injured bird might be lurking.

La Societe protectrice des oiseaux des villes are wonderful friendly bird-loving people who can be found at:
68 rue Gabriel peri, 92320, Chatillon Tel: 01 42 53 27 22.