“Fat Balls!” mum shouted out the other day
I thought she had been peeking but no, not her, not my mum. What she was on about was getting foodstuff for birds. Our feathered friends are of a huge delight to mum. So much so that she bills and coos whenever a winged beastie alights on fence or bush or bird table or, better still, in the bird bath.
“Look at that dove,” she said pointing to a pigeon that was both fat and incredibly stupid, “they are the birds of peace you know.”
Yes, I did know that. I also know that doves and pigeons are both of the same family and are indeed the same bird. I did mention that….once. I shall not again. The scorn heaped upon my head was like being hit about the crust with a rubber mallet. The Woody Allen quote springs to mind but doesn’t spring from my lips. “Rats with wings.”
The other day, as the care-worker who mum employs had just arrived, the ginger Tom from across the fence was hiding in the shrubbery. It is a fat old cat but still game for a laugh. The poor old pigeon wasn’t much of a sport, though. It did its best to move its dull, heavy wings but by the time it had got a bit of a flap on the cat was upon it like a geriatric Bagpuss.
Mum might have C.O.P.D. This may have caused her to slow down a bit or so you’d think. Not so my bonny lads and lasses for she leapt out of her seat like a rocket-propelled harpy as she flew across the room (if only the pigeon could have taken notes) and hammered upon the patio window with muscle superman would envy.
The sound of demented, aged flesh must have shaken the poor cat somewhat for he, looking up and seeing Grace Pool thundering at him, scarpered away as quick as you like. The pigeon did what any sane bird would do when it only has half a brain in the first place and most of its feathers chewed off ... it continued searching for seeds and then eating them.
all words and art are copyright © of Russell 'C.J' Duffy.