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Homer the Flying Puppy: Part Two

Lisa Nee of Madison, a writer and president of Allen/Nee Productions, writes an occasional column, Such is Life, for Shore Publishing; in this installment, the second of a two-part series, she writes about her new housemate.

I was in a bit of a quandary, having received a truncated text from an unfamiliar number that was friendly and a bit lewd. The portion visible on my phone without opening the entire message, said:

“Good morning. I’m wondering if you want me to bring the stuff to sex test…”

I asked a few friends to read what could be seen and advise. The responses of those I asked ranged from “Eww…” to “Don’t open it, block the sender.” “Looks like clickbait.” and “Go ahead, open it.” That last directive to open it was from my husband.

I clicked on the message, and in its entirety it said,

“Good morning. I’m wondering if you want me to bring the stuff to sex test your pigeon?”

Thus began our relationship with the Pigeon Whisperer.

Art Bursts Into Flight

Four months before the need for a pigeon whisperer, a homing pigeon literally walked into our home. According to some (my sister and now me), the timing and similarities made it obvious this wandering bird was the spirit of our dear dog who had died a year earlier.

We christened the bird Homer, but by now, he/she, we don’t know the gender, was simply called Pidgie Pants because she was just so darn cute. Pidgie seemed content, never flew into our many windows, indicating a need to escape. She liked to be near us, joining in the morning breakfast shuffle, flying from room to room.

At times I would be working and hear a clickety-click sound outside my door and think, “There goes Pidgie walking down the hallway.” He appeared in our annual holiday card. I was gifted a personalized Pidgie Pants coffee mug. And he had a special heating pad under the basket in which he slept. We had become so comfortable with a pigeon in our midst that we no longer mentioned it to visitors who were often startled when what they thought was a piece of expert sculpture burst into flight.

And yet she was like artwork, so pretty with a portfolio of poses to rival any model. As with prized art, we were not allowed to get too close and most certainly not touch.

A Little Unfair

We had seen many Youtube videos in which pigeons snuggled with their owners, allowing themselves to be stroked and cuddled. Hoping we could achieve the same intimacy with our Pidgie, I walked around for an entire weekend with a chip on my shoulder, literally balancing a potato chip on my shoulder, hoping Pidgie might come in for a landing.

No chance.

It seemed a little unfair that a thing so adorable could not be held, like a teddy bear just out of reach.

We needed to know more.

The Audubon Shop in Madison gave me the number of the person we came to refer to as the Pigeon Whisperer.

We set up a time for her to visit, and that led to the text inquiring about the DNA sex test. At less than $50, it seemed a reasonable price.

The Pigeon Whisper arrived on a cold January afternoon. She was so very slight but with a graceful stick-straight posture, and long arms and fingers meant to do things. In another setting, she might have passed for a ballet dancer or concert pianist. But in her jeans, T-shirt, and heavy shoes, we knew this was the woman for whom we had been waiting.

There was not a lot of chit chat. She explained she did not understand sarcasm, so please say what you mean; she did not support bird sports, nor did she think birds should be babied, none of that cutesie babble. You give a bird a name, and stick to it.

I quietly pushed the Pidgie Pants coffee cup out of sight.

Pigeon Crack

We introduced her to Homer. She looked in his basket, scoffed at the specialty heating pad, and with one swift movement, she snatched him up. She trimmed his nails, extracted a drop of blood for sex testing, and asked, would we like him fitted for pidgeon pants?

You and I might refer to this garment as a diaper to catch poop, but using the word diaper, she explained would be disrespectful to the bird.

Pigeon pants are worn somewhat like a bird thong and don’t hinder the birds’ flight. Homer seemed undisturbed by being the bird wearing the pants in the family. But I was the one not sanguine with the act of grabbing him by surprise twice a day to change his pants. As much as we all wanted to have a bird in hand, Homer was not going to be a willing participant.

“I’ve saved the best for last,” the Pigeon Whisper said. And she held up a baggie filled with white seed that she referred to as pigeon crack. It turns out pigeons go nuts for safflower seed. She scattered some seed on the floor and zoom: Homer was gobbling the seed as if his life depended upon it.

We bid the Pigeon Whisper adieu.

The next morning I sat on the cold kitchen floor, spread some safflower seeds on my robe, tucked my hands out of sight, and waited. Pidgie circled a few times, hesitated, and then to my amazement, hopped onto my lap.

It was a lovely feeling.

Isolated But Never Alone

If I had closed my eyes, I’m not sure I would have noticed him, so light, yet with such presence. Perhaps there is a word for this sensation, but I don’t know it. It is like when a small child rests his hand on your leg, and the weight of its absence is what you feel the most.

He ate all of the seed from my lap and stayed a little bit just staring at me. I realized there was no need for me to hold him because in that moment, it was he that was holding me.

During this period of isolation, I am home with five men, a husband, three sons, and a pigeon.

Yes, Homer is a boy!

Not that it makes a difference in how we interact with him; he is the most loved bird.

No one really knows how a homing pigeon can find its way home, sometimes from more than a thousand miles away. Ornithologists continue to study and speculate: Is it the sun, a certain smell, weather, the Earth’s magnetic field? Long before Twitter, these birds were the most reliable method of distant communication. They carried messages of war, and hardship, of peace and great joy. Even without a scrap of paper tied to his leg, our Pidgie has delivered his message to me, and it is this: We may be isolated but never alone as long as we can open our hearts to the mysteries of the world.

Puppy, pigeon, or prophet, whomever from, wherever, thank you for finding us.

That, my friends, is the story of Homer the Flying Puppy.

More pictures and stories can be found on his Pidgie Pants Facebook page.