There is a pigeon in my building. He came sometime yesterday afternoon. Upon my return from The Day, I found said pigeon not just in the hallway—but at my door. The dogs inside were going crazy, but pigeon did not give a fuck. He didn’t offer a name or an explanation, obviously, because he is a bird. This is not a neighbor asking for a cup of sugar: this is a disease ridden, flying rat monster. Pigeon is not cute.
This morning I came out to find Pigeon at the bottom of the stairs. Some fool had brought out a bowl of cat food for it. He sat chubby and ruffled looking beside his bowl of cat food. “Pigeons don’t eat cat food” I said, part to Pigeon and part to whoever had given this bird a bowl of dry cat food. Pigeon stared at me.
Alas, here we are and it is past six pm. Pigeon is still on his landing, now surrounded by his own fecal matter, some feathers, and cat food. That is also now what my hallway smells like as well, which is just…so nice.
I called animal control, who directed me to 311, who told me that Animal Care and Control does not “do” birds. Oh, they don’t “do” birds. Apparently, I have to bring the bird to them. But I, also, do not do birds.