Lucy wrote this but it is so good it needs to be passed along.
He’s my “Daddy” but after I married and left home, my brothers began calling him “Pop”. All the grandkids call him “Pop” as well. I figured that was only fair since my Granny was married to my Poppa.
Pop came to visit our Belgian home in December 2008. He was interested in our “koelberging” — that’s pronounced “cool berging”, simple enough and means the outdoor cool storage our apartment up on the sixth floor is afforded by the huge slab of blue stone marble that sits beside the front terrace. In the winter months and during the late fall and early spring, the temperature there is perfectly fine for storing extra supplies, vegetables, drinks, even leftovers, that need cool temperatures. We have a tiny [8 or 9 cubic feet] apartment refrigerator. The extra storage certainly comes in handy at times.
So, when he visited, being the ex-military, strategic thinking, “varmint hunter” that he is, Pop asked about the security of our supplies. Isn’t it said somewhere that the military marches on its stomach or something like that? Being former Air Force, Pop was trained in anticipating aerial attacks. We are up on the sixth floor after all so we don’t anticipate the arrival of any cruise ships or tanks that might reach us. An aerial attack? Well, that is certainly a possibility.
Did I mention that Pop is a varmint hunter? He has fought foxes and gophers, skunks and “no-see-ums”, not to mention the wild hogs for years. They’ve attacked his gardens, his guinea fowl and his kitchen. There is one squirrel that has regularly made raids in the back door of Pop’s kitchen for years. Pop has set traps, fired weapons and at times just given in and fed them. He knew that my koelberging was at risk for an attack. It was only a matter of time.
Our front terrace overlooks a portion of park that is home to pigeons, magpies and the occasional stray dog. The pigeons are infamous for seeking human food to eat. This is probably the result of silly humans feeding them. In defense of those humans, can you think of something better to do with leftover bread? Almost any day of the week, you can see the torn pieces of bread that someone dumps out in the park to be gobbled up by the crows, gulls and pigeons that find them and alert their friends.
During the summer that we first moved in here, the terrace next to us became home to two pigeons that built a nest in a flowerbox and proceeded to raise a small family there. The second summer, we watched the recurrence of the nesting and setting. We weren’t sure if the couple were the original pair, offspring of the original or just another random pair that liked the looks of the neighborhood. We realized that the proximity of their home out our home even more at risk.
This year the neighbor next door had cleaned up and rearranged the flowerboxes. They were repotted, after two “empty years” with living vegetation. This makes building a nest rather a challenge. There have been visits next door from several pigeons that have come to assess the possibility of homebuilding on the terrace. I believe I even saw the beginnings of a next but those beginnings were gone after last week’s very strong storm. During the assessment/survey process, there has been the occasional landing of a pigeon on the balcony railing of our apartment. I hurriedly explained to them that this area was not available and they headed off. If John had been left to “explain” it to them . . . well, I shudder to think. He has no mercy.
So after all these preliminaries, I must tell you that the attack Pop feared finally came today. He was right; it was indeed an aerial attack. It wasn’t from the magpies. It wasn’t from the crows. It wasn’t even from the gulls. It was the pigeons. Yes, indeed, those “rats with wings”, as John calls them, attacked.
The attack was from below. He was flying, I assume, under the radar. I assume that if he’d needed speed, he’d have gone higher and come in from above. He was using stealth. He was going to fly in low and take cover in the flora of the terrace. He’d spotted the flowerbox filled with deep purple petunias which appeared to afford him a place to land quickly and hide. He evidently hadn’t been keeping track of the weather to know that it’s been warm here lately. If he had, he’d have realized that the supplies had been moved. Potatoes tend to sprout when they are left out in warm sunny places. Coca-cola actually lightens in color if not protected from the light. Leftovers become poisonous in the lovely warm days we’ve been enjoying. He didn’t know that his target was gone. He only knew he had to attempt to get to the terrace unnoticed, land and quickly take cover.
He aimed for the petunias. He took off from below and headed straight for the flowerboxes that afforded him potential cover. His flight was short and swift. He slowed just enough at the end to attempt a safe landing. He slowed just enough to quietly land and hide. He slowed . . . but it wasn’t enough and then it hit him. Well, actually, he hit it. That force-field, that safety shield, that glass balcony railing that lets John enjoy watching all the travel in the park in the mornings but keeps us all safe when we walk out or sit out on the balcony. He slowed but not enough. He slowed but it was too late. He flew into the glass.
The petunias survived. The glass survived. The pigeon has not been seen since but certainly did not end up lying on the road down below our apartment. We have to assume he survived. There was one casualty the day of the attack and one near fatality. The pigeon’s pride was certainly injured. I believe John almost died laughing.
Yes, the attack Pop feared finally came and my dear sweet husband was almost a casualty.
