Our balcony distantly overlooks a scenic, but sometimes-foggy Long Island Sound. I like to glance out the glass door on occasion to admire the view. The recent addition of patio furniture has made the balcony a pleasant place to read on breezy afternoons, so I sometimes sit out there with iced tea and books and enjoy everything. Except the pigeons. Oh my goodness, the pigeons.
There’s this dark-gray dynamic duo who flies around, feet from my face, taunting me, probably threatening to poop on my head while they coo sweetly. Seriously, pigeon coos are soothing, but their dive-bombs and swoops are not.
This morning, while I was
watching NBC sitcoms on Netflix working, I glanced toward the balcony. I watched as two gray spots in the distance loomed larger and larger. Like some strange synchronized swimming troupe, the pigeons landed on the balcony rail, facing into my living room. And with their strange, robotic bird necks, they were looking around, casing my living room. They scoped out my TV, the old and water-stained surround-sound system and our very expensive designer IKEA furniture.
Then, in unison, they turned tail and flew off.
They’re probably planning to rob our apartment.
Pigeons are terrifying.