# Homing pigeons



## Homer1 (Oct 12, 2000)

About a year ago I bought a couple of homing pigeons and bred them. They had two babies and ive had them in the cages for quit some time now. I finally let them out to fly and they did not come back. Do you think the birds I bout arn't really homing pigeons. I wonder if some one can help me with current situation.


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## raynjudy (Aug 22, 2000)

Yes, you'll get help here. Please describe the circumstances of where the pigeons are kept and how you handled the release. All pigeons are, to some extent "homers". How many days has it been? How easy is the pigeons access to return? Provide the facts, and you will find help here.
--Ray


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## Homer1 (Oct 12, 2000)

It has been 3 days, And all I did was open the door and let them come out by them self. one bird came back. What i so is leave the door open and i,ll close the door at night when they perch for the noght.then ill seperate what ever birds came back into another cage until all birds returned. but its been so long since i let them go. I raised these birds ( not hand raised ) Myself and they only now of the cage they lived in for 10 months.

Is their any explanation as to why they don,t come back.
Homer1


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## bigbird (Aug 19, 2000)

There is no sure way of knowing where the birds went and why they did not come back. If they were young, they were perhaps inexperienced with the local area, and so got lost. Perhaps one bird took the lead and took the others with it. There is just no way to know. 
When introducing young birds to the outside, it is always best to put them in the company of some older, more experienced birds. They will usually follow the lead of the older birds.
I am sorry that I cannot be of more help to you, I am sure it is very hard for you not knowing where they are and if they will ever return. 
Good luck,

Carl


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## raynjudy (Aug 22, 2000)

Take Heart. I'm going to email you a copy of
a correspondence from friends in Kentucky. Their bird, Pige, has been missing for 6-weeks. Guess what? Check your email!
--Ray


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## Homer1 (Oct 12, 2000)

Well two of the birds returned but one never found home. It has been about three weeks now and I think i could say that, that bird is gone. well im breeding some pair too make up for lost birds now.
Big bird are you the one who hand raises pigeons?


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## raynjudy (Aug 22, 2000)

Yes, he is THE MAN.

Stand by... He answers all!









--Ray


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## bigbird (Aug 19, 2000)

Hi Homer1,
Yes, I have raised many baby pigeons right from the egg. They are much easier than parrots because they grow so fast and are on their own within about 2-3 weeks. 
Is there something you would specifically know about hand raising?
Regards,
Carl


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## ONEEYEPIGEON (Oct 27, 2000)

Hello Carl , I wanted to ask you something if i take a pair of babys away from their Parents will this upset them ,or make them stop laying , they have raise about three pair so far that have so many colors in them i would like to take at lease one and raise it by hand in the house. thanks for any advice . Walt


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## bigbird (Aug 19, 2000)

Hi again Walt,
Taking a baby from the parents will not affect the parent's future performance. They will accept the dissapointment and then move on with more eggs and squabs.
If you are going to hand raise, suggest you do only one at a time. Even one is a hand full. You might also want to re-read "Lucky In Love"....which gives some more directions on hand raising. Let me know if you want me to send you a copy.
Good luck Walt,
Regards,
Carl


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## Homer1 (Oct 12, 2000)

Well Bigbird I had tried to hand raise a newly hatched pigeon and bought some stuff at the pet store for feeding baby birds and i fed they baby for about three days all the time still in the nest because the foster parents wass still incubating the baby bird but just not feeding it. there was another baby in the nest one week older then the one i was trying to raise. well it eventually died after three days. is thier any sugestions or recomendations you can give me for the next time this happens. can you actually raise a squab indoors without an incubator?

Homer1


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## ONEEYEPIGEON (Oct 27, 2000)

Yes Carl i would reall like to get a copy .My Email is [email protected] thanks alot . walt


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## bigbird (Aug 19, 2000)

Homer 1,
The baby you chose was the runt, often the parents take the first born and let the latter runt die. They may know something we do not know. Anyway, if the bird had lived, it might have been crippled or something. I have one pet bird that was the runt, it cannot fly, and will never live a normal life.
When you take a bird from the nest to hand feed, do not return it to the nest. If you make the decision to feed it, it bedcomes your responsibility totally.
Brooders are not necessary. Place it onto clean paper towels in a plastic bowl, change the towels often. Place the bowl near a light bulb (not to close) for warmth. Cover the bowl at night. Feed on a regular schedule. Give it a little water also.
As for the schedule, amounts, etc. check out my "Lucky in Love" story. And ask me for more information as you go along.
Sorry about your loss.
Regards,
Carl


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## Homer1 (Oct 12, 2000)

Where can i find this story (lucky in love) I looked through this site and i can't find it.


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## bigbird (Aug 19, 2000)

I will send you a copy via E-mail
Regards,
Carl


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## Homer1 (Oct 12, 2000)

Your attachment didn't work. I clicked on it and nothing happend. I think that its just searching the C: drive. can you please try again and try it differently this time.
Thank you


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## bigbird (Aug 19, 2000)

Hey Homer1, I do not know why you cannot get it by e-mail. So I have decided to copy and paste it onto this bulletin board for you to read. If you want to save it, copy it and paste it into an MS word document file.
Here is the story of Lucky.

“Lucky In Love”
A Pigeon Story


If Lucky were born as a street pigeon, instead of a Birmingham Roller, there would be no story here and Lucky would probably be on some ferry dock, begging French fries from the car passengers. That’s what feral pigeons do here in Seattle. But Lucky was lucky. 

First Light

It was a cold December morning in 1998 when I entered the pigeon loft behind the barn, to find a baby pigeon there on the floor. Two days earlier I’d found another baby pigeon that had frozen to death. Apparently, the chicks were falling from the nest during the night. When this happens during daylight, the mother and father pigeons will come to the rescue, giving warmth and food to their baby. But this happened at night. And since pigeons won’t fly before morning light, in cold weather the baby is usually doomed.

I reached down and picked up the cold, hard body of the baby pigeon, and was about to throw it into the ravine when I felt a slight movement in my hand. I stared closely at it for a moment and finally, yes, it moved again. It was still alive, but just barely. I immediatley ran for the house.

Paul, my youngest son met me outside the kitchen door and wanted to know what I had cupped in my hands. I told him it was a frozen baby pigeon that I thought was still alive. He wanted to see it. He looked at it, then at me, and said “Dad, I don’t think this bird is going to make it.”

I didn’t say anything, but took the baby bird into the kitchen and carefully placed it on a soft towel, near the wood stove. I watched for a moment, there was no movement. So I covered it with another towel 
and decided that I had done all I could for the time being. I left the bird alone and returned to the barn to finish my morning chores.

About two hours later I returned to the kitchen to check on the baby pigeon and found a miracle. I lifted the towel and there in the warmth of the lamp was a live, kicking, screaming little baby pigeon. It was completely revived, head lifted off the towel, bobbing back and forth, making little peeping sounds. The tiny squab was alive! I could not believe my eyes! Squeak, squeak, squeak was the sound it made. It was actually alive—and very hungry. I couldn’t get over it.

And so our story begins, a story about love and friendship with a unique and interesting pet, a pigeon called “Lucky”.



The Squab Job…Someone Has To Do It!

My first reaction to Lucky’s miraculous recovery was to think about returning her to the nest for continued care from mom and dad. When I checked the loft, I found the mother caring for the other baby in the nest. The father was nowhere to be found. I searched the loft again and again with the same result—no father pigeon. Since pigeons are exemplary parents, I concluded that the male pigeon must have met with some tragic end while flying outside the loft. Perhaps he met with a Cooper Hawk or some stray cat. Whatever the reason, the mother was now alone; and I feared that she could not take care of both squabs on her own. 

In my 34 years of marriage to Sondra, we had raised 5 children, most of them grown, now gone from the nest. The prospect of a new baby in the house was not exactly thrilling. But this little squab, that I later named Lucky, needed help now! Someone had to do it… 

I remembered all the formula stuff, the night feedings, the bathing and care our children had received, mostly from their mother. I had played father largely on the sidelines, watching it all go by. Now it was my turn. But where would I start? While I was thinking this through, the racket continued from the kitchen: Squeak! Squeak! Squeak! Lucky was telling me what my next step should be: “FEED ME NOW!”

Where was I going to get fresh “pigeon milk”? This is the primary staple given to baby pigeons by their parents (male pigeons lactate too). I deduced that it must be a mixture of seeds and some kind of milk produced in the parent’s craw. I decided to try to replicate the stuff. So I boiled some pigeon seed, mashed it, then mixed it with half & half, and tried to feed it to Lucky with a small spoon. Disaster. Lucky’s craw was completely empty and I had made no progress. Lucky screamed, I screamed and Sondra screamed, because I had burned the bottom of the pan. I headed for the pet store.

Once again, Lucky was lucky. The pet store carried “baby bird formula”, plastic syringes and information on how to hand feed baby parrots. I purchased some Neo-Nate formula by LM and followed the directions on the package:

1 to 2 days: 1-part formula, 6-parts water. 

3 to 14 days: 1-part formula, 3-parts water. 

2 to 3 weeks: 1-part formula, 2-parts water. 

Necessity is a mother… At first the feedings were a real chore for me. Learning to hand feed a squeaking, wiggling, uncooperative little squab was a challenge. With syringe in one hand, the baby on the towel, I would try to open the small beak with my one remaining hand. Hold still, you! Damn. I know you are hungry, just calm down and let me do my job. ****!

But eventually we came to an understanding: I am the feedor. And you, my little squab, are the feedee. I took the towel and wrapped it around Lucky until she looked like a mummy, with head poking out the top, and placed her in a cottage cheese container. That should do it! And it did. From then on Lucky could kick and scream all she wanted, but I was able to hold her head, open her beak and shoot formula into her craw. This worked perfectly. Her tummy was kept full! Lucky began to grow larger…I was growing older—fast.

But from there things got real smooth. Soon I actually looked forward to the feeding times. And so did Lucky. 

At week three I began introducing small frozen corn and peas, warmed in the microwave. I would hand feed them one at a time, after the formula feeding. I would occasionally drop in some hard, dry pigeon feed, just to get the digestive system working. I also placed dry pigeon feed in Lucky’s box for interest. I would see Lucky peck at the dry feed, not quite getting the idea of swallowing it. This, I learned, was normal. Eventually the dry feed would become the daily staple. 
And sure enough, at four weeks Lucky was eating dry feed without my help. An era had ended.

I still didn’t know if Lucky was a boy or a girl (cock or a hen). But when I found two eggs in her box, I got my answer. Of course, the eggs were unfertile. But Lucky took up round-the-clock setting operations anyway. Well, practice makes perfect, I supposed. I later removed the eggs. 


Routine! Routine! Routine!

All pet birds love routine. Pigeons are no exception. 
They seem to fall in with the rhythm of the household and come to expect it. Feeding times were spaced and maintained day after day. Three hours and the little tummy (craw) was almost empty, time to feed. After week two we could feed at 10:00 PM and not again until 6:00 AM. That was wonderful! I now have some idea of how it must have been for my wife during the baby years in our home, a little late, maybe, but at least I “get it”. Lucky’s daily routine went something like this:

6:00 AM---Breakfast, followed by a drink of warm tea.
9:00 AM---Regular feeding, followed by play time in box.

12:00 PM---Lunch, playtime and long nap.

3:00 PM---Regular feeding.

6:00 PM---Dinner

8:00 PM---Warm bath in the dish pan, followed by towel 
dry-off period, some TV watching, petting 
and bird talk. Don’t forget the warm tea.
10:00 PM---Late snack, followed by bedtime in the box,
lights out, towel over box until morning. 

Pigeon Development 

At 33 days Lucky was fully developed, feathered and weaned
(sure beats 18 years!). But she was inexperienced. She worked at flying with assisted hops, controlled falls and some short, successful flights. Since Lucky’s mother was a Birmingham Roller, a type of performing pigeon, and her father a Syrian Tumbler (also a performer), I saw no reason for her not to eventually master the fine art of flying.

I had experience with pigeons, as I’d kept lofts and been around them most of my life. I have a fondness for them and I admire what they are. Over the years I have learned much.

Given the chance, pigeons usually mate for life. If the pair is separated for any reason, each will find a new mate. A major priority is getting on with the business of making little pigeons. But they are not barbarians. Courting must take place first. And their courtship is somewhat like that of humans. It begins with the male chasing the female, until she finally catches him!

When they decide (mutually) to do the deed, the first egg will appear in 10 days. The second egg appears 40 hours after the first.
The hen’s job will be to warm the eggs within the nest by setting on them from about 4:00 pm., until 10:00 am. The cock will brood (set on the eggs) the rest of the time. The eggs hatch in 17 to 18 days, with the second egg hatching one day behind the first.

The baby chicks grow very fast, doubling their birth weight in the first 48 hours. Both parents share equally in the feeding and setting with the chicks in the nest. As the squabs grow, the parents stay away from the nest for longer periods. It is not unusual for the parents to prepare another nest and be sitting on new eggs even before the squabs are weaned. 

Our Days Growing Up

Lucky’s growth each day was astounding. So was mine...
By the seventh day her eyes were open, showing two little black shiny blinkers. Pinfeathers covered most of her body and she had grown to about 6 times her original size at birth. On the sixteenth day, Lucky was covered in light gray pinfeathers, with pure white tips. A few full white feathers were now showing.

Once we got past the more mechanical parts of daily existence such as eating, bathing, sleeping, pooping (we will address this subject later), and exercise, Lucky and I found that we actually liked each other very much. We became the best of friends. I enjoyed taking her with me everywhere. It was fun to watch her experience new things.

At morning breakfast, she would be into the Honey Nut Cheerios (no milk please), and warm tea. Morning and evening chores found her riding high on my shoulder. She was privileged to watch me feed the other pigeons in the main loft. I often wonder what she thinks of the other pigeons. She doesn’t seem to have any interest in them, wishing only to follow me around all day. Most of my day is spent at the computer with Lucky sitting on the monitor, and occasionally walking across my keyboard. Her every moment seems to be in the here and now, and watching her intrigues me. Now and again, I will find myself with Lucky, absorbed in the here and now, just watching it all go by. And it feels fine. 

Lucky is good for me. It would be terrible to be without her in my life and I cannot bring myself to imagine it. 

First Bath…

Lucky’s first bath came during the “terrible twos” (2 weeks 
old), the awkward stage. Covered with pinfeathers and some beginning white feathers, I lowered her into a dishpan filled with warm water. Her first reaction was shock. What’s happening here? Then she calmed down and realized that she actually enjoyed it! Then she pooped! So I changed the water for her. And she pooped again. Once more, I changed the water. Apparently all pooped out, she relaxed and enjoyed her first dip. I decided the bath was over when I noticed Lucky’s eyes were closed, fast asleep, head bobbing almost under water. I plucked her from the dishpan and placed her on a dry towel, covered her with paper towels and gently patted her almost dry. I finished the job with the electric hair dryer, on low setting, (Lucky loves the hair dryer!) while she continued to sleep deeply. 
I thought to myself, isn’t she cute?

First Flight…

At five weeks, the scruffy little pin feathered baby squab had grown into a lovely young pigeon, with feathers as soft and white as the clouds. She was now exercising her wings regularly, sometimes actually lifting herself off the table a few inches. This activity excited her, especially when my wife and I would applaud her efforts to fly.

At six weeks we would take walks outside near the pond, by the orchard, Lucky on my shoulder. She had accomplished some short distance flights in the kitchen, from the table to the counter top and back again. I knew she could fly, but I also knew she was very cautious about this kind of serious activity. She wanted to take it slow, and so did I.

On one special morning walk, I reached my hand up to my shoulder and she hopped on. Then I turned her so she faced me and lifted her upwards, into the air perhaps 6 or 8 feet. She opened her wings and gently fluttered back down to me. I caught her in my hands. She liked it. She had that “lets do it again” look all over her face. So we did it again, and again. Higher and higher she went, sometimes circling two or three times before coming down to my hands. It was a wonderful experience, for both of us.

On another day, as we left the house for our walk, I set Lucky on top of the porch railing post. She just stood there craning her neck, investigating everything around her. I continued walking by myself, down the steps, across the grass, down the path to the pond. I looked back often, watching to see what Lucky would do. She just stood there, perched on the railing post, watching me. When I reached the pond I turned and raised my arm in the air and called out to her. At that very instant, Lucky opened her wings, lifted off the porch post, into the air and began to fly. At first she seemed rather hesitant, flying in my direction, then turning and flying in another. I called to her loudly. The distance she had to travel to reach me was at least 200 yards. She suddenly banked to the left and headed straight for me. Traveling very fast, she turned her wings to break, stopped abruptly, and fluttered downward, landing softly on my shoulder. It was a perfect landing. Wow! Lucky can fly! I got real excited and she looked so proud of herself. Later, as we approached the house, she lifted off my shoulder and flew directly back to the same railing post. There she waited for me to catch up with her. Lucky’s first flight day was very special. To this day she flies like an angel, high into the sky, but always returns to my shoulder. 

At 12 weeks of age Lucky was an adult bird. Except for a few black feathers, located on her neck and tail, she was completely snow white. Her eyes were now a bright orange, with a large black iris. Her beak was black and very pointed. Her feet were pink, with short white feathers covering the legs and three toes. She was a beautiful bird. 
As days went by I learned that she was not only a beautiful bird, but also a beautiful companion. Lucky expressed what I call pigeon love toward me. Pigeon love is almost complete surrender to my wishes (with some exceptions, which I will go into later). Our relationship was special right from the beginning, but as time went by, our bond became deeper. 

Lucky also had certain expectations of me. Her priority list started with togetherness. Whatever I might have planned for the day was fine with her, as long as we did it together. When I took my morning shower, she was there too. She would sit atop the shower door. While shaving, she would strut back and forth across the vanity top. While brushing my teeth, she always had to get a sip of water from my cup. Her favorite bathroom activity was to crouch inside the towel cupboard, twitching her wings and emitting a soft cooing sound. When I noticed her activity, I would know that her expectation would be for me to give her some love petting. I would reach in and place my hand over her head and neck, giving her a back and forth tussle. At this point Lucky would begin a very rapid and loud cooing. She was obviously very pleased. She would have accepted this kind of affection for as long as I wanted to stand there and give it to her.

Pooping, everywhere and often was another expectation Lucky harbored. I have raised hand fed parrots, training them to deposit their droppings only in certain (OK) places. They were quite easy to train. 

Pigeons are another story. I think pigeons are almost impossible to potty train, but I will continue to try. Lucky does have her special places. Places I call normal poop drops. The unfortunate thing is that her poop drops are seldom where my choice would be. I’ve tried many techniques to train Luck in proper bathroom behavior, without success. So currently, I have a pigeon philosophy that says: “Pigeons and their poop come as a package”. If you love pigeons, as I do, you will make an allowance for the whole package. You will keep a roll of tissue paper handy at all times, and table knife for use on the carpet. Fortunately, normal pigeon poop is rather hard, somewhat like soft clay, so it can be cleaned up quite easily. It is also odorless. So much for pigeon poop…


Life with Lucky

I cannot begin to imagine losing Lucky. Some pigeons will live to over 20 years. I hope this will be the case for Lucky. She is a gift from God, and somehow more special than any other pet I have owned, including dogs and cats. I have many other birds including doves, pigeons, parrots and lovebirds. I enjoy them all and they all have a place in my life. But only Lucky holds that soft place, near my heart. 

What makes a tame pigeon like Lucky so special? It could be the way she bows her head in greeting when I enter the room. Or, when she makes direct eye contact to tell me something, without making a sound. Maybe it’s the way she flys across a field to land softly on my shoulder. Lucky doesn’t talk like my parrots do. She won’t chase sticks like the dog. But Lucky does impact my life. She is a “mirror reflecting all the life and love around me”. A continual reminder that “life is good”. 

By Carl Gulledge
Vashon Island, Washington
9/9/00



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## raynjudy (Aug 22, 2000)

What a treat to read this again--and what a wonderful sharing. If this is not in keeping with the season, nothing is!

Hey, bigbird! Please see email with attachment and kindly post that attachment here as well. Happy Holidays Everybody!

--Ray & Judy


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## Homer1 (Oct 12, 2000)

Wow Bigbird that was a great story. I am going to add this to my pigeon note book. happy holidays.
Homer1


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## bigbird (Aug 19, 2000)

Here is a wonderful story from Ray...

The Charm Of A Pigeon

ENCOUNTER WITH BERNIE

It’s time I begin this. I cannot say enough on his behalf. Far and away, he is more than the average person would begin to suspect. A unique individual with feelings, priorities, agendas and a wealth of street smarts—Bernie has style!

I met Bernie on January 18th, 1995. It was around 5:00 pm. Clearly, he was in trouble, the victim of a traffic accident. Nobody would stop. Not one person, it seemed, would even give him the courtesy of a wide berth. Where is a cop when you need one? But I saw him. I recognized his dilemma and I helped.

His body language was unmistakable. He was panicked for good reason. He was in grave danger from the rush hour traffic. If I had not acted, Bernie would have been killed that day.

We tied up two westbound lanes on Sunset Drive in Waukesha. People honked. Good ole boys made sign language at us. But a woman in a burgundy Buick stopped and waved me to go ahead. Kind souls may not be the norm, but they do exist.

And so we approached one another, meeting midway on the four-lane road. His
next step was quite remarkable. He moved quickly toward me. His head was tilted severely to one side (neck trauma from the impact). He stopped within mere inches of me and with great effort moved his head nearly erect. He shook and trembled. His slender legs were wobbly. I wasn’t sure if it was the cold or shock that affected him.
And then he made direct eye contact with me. I mean he really looked at me. His body
language and “expression” were all I needed to see; he implored, can you help me?

So, I offered my help. And he accepted.

Bernie came home with me. He declined food and water, but gratefully accepted a blanket and radiant heater. He dozed.

Stressed by the event, I needed refreshment. A long, hot shower and something to eat were in order. But there were preparations to make. Judy was due home soon and I didn’t want the two of them surprising one another. So, I left a note on the door: ENTER QUIETLY, HE’S HAD A BAD DAY.

The two of them hit it off just fine. We had the room, and as it turned out, he was looking for a place. He had no insurance. But we took him to the doctor and paid his bills. His recovery was hard fought, with no minor effort on Judy’s part. After rounds of
antibiotics and physical therapy, Bernie bounced back. He was not 100% mind you, but he was definitely back. And if he chose, he had a family and a home.

I should have known it would be all right. Judy is a kind soul. She often makes time for hard luck cases, especially if they’re birds, and Bernie is a pigeon.

APPROPRIATE ACCOMODATIONS

After scolding us about the dangers of Psittacosis and Coccidiosis (we have other birds), the vet gave his diagnosis and prognosis: Though ambulatory, Bernie’s flying days were over. He would need support for the rest of his life.

Pigeons can live up to thirty years under ideal conditions. There was little debate. Bernie had won us over completely. So, I went to work on his residence.

Our local Walmart had it all. Muffin cooling racks, a hunter green laundry basket, zip-lock wire ties, garden boarder fence, and a gray doormat were the components of Bernie’s permanent home. I added an aquarium light fixture to finish the project.

The inverted laundry basket made a fine frame for Bernie’s home. A single edged razor blade scored and cut the plastic as needed. The wire ties made excellent hinges for the front and side doors (cooling racks) and the rolled edge of the basket, now inverted,
served as a lock for both doors when lowered to the closed position. Paper clips fashioned into swing hooks held the doors open. One more wire tie secured the fluorescent fixture on one end through two aligned holes. This step would prevent the lamp from dropping into the place, but still allow easy access to replace the bulb.

I laced green dental floss in an X pattern across the large openings of the fence. 
I then placed neon pink adhesive dots, back to back, everywhere the lines (floss) intersected. The colors actually worked well with the most attractive corner of our living room. 

Judy merely shook her head and smiled when she arrived and saw the results of my efforts. 

Now Bernie had a permanent residence, complete with electric lighting and a fenced yard to strut around in when we weren’t home.

This was new turf for us. We had parrots, fish, iguanas, a turtle, and a transient crawfish in our home. But yard birds were new territory. All in all, we did the best we could.

But Bernie complained loudly. He fussed, he moaned, and twirling and spinning he told us about it. He’d bonded with the cardboard box that was his first refuge with us. And he would not readily accept his new accommodations. We heard him and offered him a choice. 

For two nights Bernie had two homes. He went back and forth between both residences and complained the whole time. Finally, he settled on one—the new one!
While he was busy, we quietly removed the old homestead. He gave the matter little notice. To this day, that’s Bernie’s place. 

LIFE WITH BERNIE

I do not intentionally anthropomorphize any animal. Yet, I recognize similarities in our behaviors and personalities. And lets face it; we are all limited and imperfect. Bernie, decidedly, has an excess of personality. This we accept, and love him unconditionally.

Whether it was random chance or fate is unimportant. We are all here and now.
Bernie is family. We have strongly imprinted on one another. The process was reciprocal.

Overall, we found that this formula works best: compromise and do it his way!

He would not be contained. When his healing reached a plateau, Bernie was no longer content with the confines of his yard. I’d come home to find him sleeping peacefully on my bed, or watching the world go by from a windowsill. I tightened security around his home to no avail. Given any minor chance, Bernie sought escape. And he exerted himself to the danger point. Again, we “compromised”.

I know what you’re thinking. So let me set you straight. Cured of two common infections, Psittacosis and Coccidiosis, a pigeon’s droppings are like a bunny’s. They bounce when they hit the carpet. We keep a neat home (really). But, admittedly, we use more than our share of Kleenex. Thus, he has earned nicknames like, guanomatic or guanotron. His is a busy little bottom! 

And so, we pretty much gave him the run of the house. And that’s how it has been. Except for when he’s tucked in for the night, or when nobody’s home, Bernie more or less does what he feels like.

Bernie is a proud individual. He spends much time on personal grooming and appearance. He appreciates an occasional shower and takes a full ten minutes doing so!
He’s no trouble in the shower, raising his wings one at a time, as you would an armpit in the warm water. He shakes and flaps himself dry. His antics are endearing. Bernie is far and away less mess than the parrots or iguanas. His droppings are neat and odorless. He eats at two or three stations. During a molt he leaves localized messes and his downy feathers find their way to the air cleaning system—but this is easy to pick up after and no big deal. 

Daily maintenance equipment for Bernie amounts to a tabloid newspaper, Kleenex, seeds and water, vitamins and a vacuum cleaner. He is a worry, getting under foot, and any of the parrots could shred him at will if he didn’t have them bluffed by his bluster. But by and large, Bernie is no trouble and I think his life with us has been pretty good. 

Still, no existence is perfect and Bernie’s is no exception.

SPIDER CREATURES!

“Spider Creatures. Spider Creatures that come here from Jupiter! Spider Creature is here for your seedsies! Spider Creature’s in your house, eating your seedsies!” Say these words loud enough; repeat if necessary, and you’ll see Bernie in attack mode! When the crisis passes, as often as not, Bernie will remain in patrol mode with heightened awareness of claimed territories (there are many).

Spider Creatures have five legs and look an awful lot like a human hand (mine!). But the threat is real. And Bernie seems to relish the challenge. He can be in another room and all I need do is loudly and playfully say, “Spider Creature is in your house, eating your seedsies!” Almost without fail a small gray streak comes racing through the doorway, from under the bed, or around a corner.

The attack is immediate. A struggle ensues. The Spider Creature invariably dies. The seedsies are saved! Bernie gives a victory coo, with one foot on the fallen Spider Creature. On some occasions he twirls and drops a “victory dud!” Bernie loves this kind of play, as the superficial wounds on my hands will attest to. He plays like a puppy!

PIGEONS AND DOVES

Apparently, science does not distinguish greatly between doves and pigeons. They are one family. In fact, the traditional White Dove of Peace is actually a white pigeon when rendered accurately. 

Since the ancient Egyptians, Greeks and Romans, pigeons and doves have been revered for their beauty and practical reliability. Since all pigeons are essentially homing pigeons, their unique capabilities were recognized early:

According to myth, a white dove returned to the arc with an olive branch to let Noah know that land was not far (that is the root of the proverbial olive branch). Pigeons are clearly depicted on Egyptian tombs. They delivered late breaking news of the early Olympic Games. Pigeons carried engineering updates for King Solomon’s mines. William Shakespeare wrote of the beauty and poise of the dove. Long John Silver, a preserved carrier pigeon, holds a place of honor at the Air Force Museum in Dayton, Ohio, for his deeds of valor in World War One. He is one of hundreds of pigeon heroes recognized in two world wars. In military efforts, pigeons made a pivotal difference on countless occasions, saving thousands of human lives. History is replete with remarkable Pigeon/Dove credentials. Even today, there is a whitewater rafting adventures company, which exclusively uses “Pigeon Express”, for the rapid processing of their action photos. 

Yes, these creatures are prolific. Yes, pigeons and doves routinely beat the odds.
And yes, their existence is, by most, taken for granted. They’re great survivors.
You will find them on every continent, except Antarctica. But in all their robust forms, history records that they are not immune from eradication. 

PASSENGER PIGEON

In the fall of 1815, Audubon himself calculated the numbers in a single flock of passenger pigeons as they passed over rural Kentucky. His estimate: 1,115,136,000 individuals. His observation required three days—the time it took the flock to cross the sky. In his journal, he wrote of one fateful encounter when the flock arrived to settle in for the night:

“Few pigeons were to be seen, but a great number of persons, with horses and wagons, guns and ammunition, had already established encampments on the borders.
[Farmers] had driven upwards of three hundred hogs to be fattened on the pigeons which were to be slaughtered…Suddenly there burst forth a general cry of ‘Here they come!’
The noise which they made, though yet distant, reminded me of a hard gale at sea…As the birds arrived and passed over me, I felt a current of air that surprised me. Thousands were soon knocked down by the pole-men… It was a scene of uproar and confusion. Even the reports of the guns were seldom heard…Towards the approach of day…the authors of all this devastation began their entry amongst the dead, the dieing, and the mangled. The pigeons were picked up and piled in heaps, until each had as many as he could possibly dispose of, when the hogs were let loose to feed on the remainder.”

History recalls that the wholesale slaughter of the passenger pigeon was not limited to this event. Audubon speculated that ecological concerns (deforestation) posed the greatest threat to the species overall. At any rate, on September 1, 1914, the last passenger pigeon died in a Cincinnati zoo. Today, the passenger pigeon is extinct. If we could recover its genetic material, perhaps, one day we could clone a male and female passenger pigeon. But the gene blueprint would likely be incomplete and the culture and society, the entire archive of collective knowledge and unique coping skills of the species are lost forever. Sadly, as a citizen of my time I can attest that there are a large, perhaps growing number of people that would say, “so what?”

MOURNING DOVE

In my home state of Wisconsin, right now, there is a loud minority hell bent on hunting the traditionally protected Mourning Dove. To observe the current government forum and local media, one would think that these people embody popular opinion. I can tell you with certainty they do not. The forum is carefully slanted to accommodate political agendas—i.e., gun ownership rights—and the majority of people who are against this proposal are not going to be heard. Since the hunting of Mourning Doves is currently not a right in our state, I fail to see how not changing this law is a threat to gun ownership in Wisconsin? It seems one way or another the dove is destined to symbolize somebody’s agenda. One ambitious politician was actually heard to say, since there’s so many of them, why not shoot them? Unbelievable… 

As it is, perhaps in an effort to cope, we see Mourning Doves braving our Wisconsin winters rather than migrating. Many never make it till springtime. I strongly recommend that anybody read Allan W. Eckert’s, The Silent Sky: The Incredible Extinction Of The Passenger Pigeon, before forming opinion or policy on matters such as these. History is important only if its lessons are learned and all sides of an issue are examined carefully. I dearly hope compassion and morality remain part of the equation. 

MY “DOVE”

One of the best ways to really understand pigeons is to move in with one! I know people may label me an Animal Rights Whacko and I’ll admit, if you’d told me six years ago that I’d be sharing my home with a wild pigeon, I would have laughed. Still, the term, Whacko, is subjective. Some societies eat horses, dogs, cats and parrots. Anyone befriending these animals in such a society may well be labeled a whacko. I suspect that it bothers them about as much as it does me.

My impressions and observations of Bernie reflect complete accuracy, in so far as I am capable. They are flavored with affection and whatever poetic license I may be allowed. This is Bernie, as I know him.

His affections and overtures are unmistakable. Bernie is big on ritual and demands deferential treatment. And so he should! He is adorable at bedtime, accepting gifts of thistle seed, kisses on his sweet head, and stroking. Before this, I had no idea… 

When not on patrol (for Spider Creatures!), Bernie is subtle. Much of his communication is lost on untrained eyes. But once you learn to recognize it, it is nearly constant and unmistakable. Self-expression isn’t one of Bernie’s problems.

PIJJY KISSES AND THINGS…

His kisses are rapid, gentle pecks around your hands and face. He will gently place his beak between your lips if you allow it. If not, that’s okay too. Bernie can be very considerate. There is no aspect of this little creature that I find repulsive.

Of course Bernie blinks. But winkies are altogether different. A few days into his recovery I took a moment to check on him. He seemed more alert. Judy was medicating him and got him to drink water from her hand. But he still would not eat and his future seemed shaky at best. I spoke soothingly to him and he very deliberately and slowly, winked his eyes at me. He squeezed them closed for a heartbeat, and then opened them.
Like I said, Bernie really looks at a person when he wants to. Have you ever been stared down by eyes the color of rusty nails? For me, at least, the experience was special. I repeated the action as best I could (I lack the nictitating membrane he has) and he did it again!

Then he added a very slight nod of his head. I mimicked this too and from there he took over. I could not keep up. Bernie has an entire repertoire of signals involving winks, nods, wing twitches, grunts and moans. Judy and I have learned to interpret many of them.

It is accepted that cats, in part, talk with their eyes. Any vet up to speed will tell you that. So do pigeons. 

As pigeons go Bernie is not overly large. Still, this bird was no fledgling. Bernie had the language down pat. I do not believe that this knowledge is genetic. I think Bernie learned this behavior.

With Bernie, for the most part, you can expect reciprocity. Like I said, his overtures are unmistakable. The olive branch I mentioned earlier is a famous metaphor. 

In our home olive branches take the form of brightly colored strips of paper or trash bag ties. When he’s in the mood, Bernie will accept these with grateful grunts, winks, twitches and kisses. He places them under his rotund little body and grunts with satisfaction. Conversely, if he wants to cuddle, he will sometimes round up a love twig and proudly present it to you—usually while you’re watching a movie or typing a manuscript like this one. He does this with much deference and ceremony. It is a deliberate overture and we are appropriately honored. 

Sometimes I wonder about the life Bernie left behind. About the loved ones and family, the familiar places, the favorite roosts, I can only speculate. I’m not even sure how old Bernie is. I only know that I will never be prepared to lose him. As crazy as it may sound, I love Bernie pretty much more than anything—or nearly anybody. 

Again, I know this is a pigeon. And I would not anthropomorphize any animal. But this little creature has earned the respect of a household. He is all I say he is.
I know that in the broad strokes, his death would not matter. And yet, I could not quantify the loss. Why do humans do this—offer friendship and love to creatures that in all likelihood will expire long before their human friends?

I’ve seen him doze in a shaft of sunlight, his breast slowly heaving, he sighs. Tucked in on himself with throat inflated, his feet are not visible. At other times he naps, balanced on one foot, the other foot tucked away, out of sight. He balances without swaying, a long while.

Picture yourself, say, on a Sunday afternoon after a good meal, resting on the sofa with this pigeon on your chest, rising and falling with every breath you take. His ash colored eyelids signal all is well. And together you doze. For a moment in space and time, you fold your wings and rest. You gently scratch his head and he grunts that everything is okay. And it is.

Beyond logic, there is feeling and belief. You can’t stuff this neatly into a box. Call it an ineffable quality. Label it any way you want. To me, Bernie’s is as viable a life as anybody’s. Bernie matters. He just does. Perhaps, nothing that is is unimportant, at least to somebody. 

Through Bernie I have learned that sometimes it’s enough to be. Just to be, here and now, with Bernie, is miracle enough. Me and my dove, alive and well, together we doze. As the shadows grow long I treasure the moment. I do my best to take mental pictures no technology can capture. For I learned as a child, that all good things…

Still, we’re only mortal. Surely, it’s best not to dwell on such matters. Doing so diminishes the gift that is here and now. Individuals like Bernie show us how to live in the moment.

We can provide only so much for Bernie. To meet his needs we can watch, learn,
compromise and improvise. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.

CRUSTY

It was the five legs that got him. I know it was the legs! The other ingredients were there. The shape and size seemed right. Bernie’s sexuality had begun to assert itself and Crusty seemed like a good option, especially in lieu of the circumstances. Certainly Crusty would serve better than one of my running shoes.

At first encounter Bernie seemed interested, even intrigued. He came when I called him. Banking around a corner of our spacious apartment, he streaked within close proximity of Crusty. Crusty quivered with joy. Bernie took a closer look. Crusty’s big expressionless goo-goo eyes gave cause for suspicion. Bernie lowered his head and looked intently at Crusty’s five legs. You see Crusty is a kind of hand puppet.

Bernie moaned and then growled (yes, he growls). Judy and I could not hide our chagrin. As our pigeon’s inspection continued, we began to snicker. That made things worse.

The attack was intense. He tore into Crusty as you would a mortal enemy.
Anchoring Crusty to the carpet with one foot, Bernie groaned with the effort to rend flesh from the hapless stuffed cardinal. He then flung Crusty nearly two feet into the air! It was hilarious! 

We laughed until we cried. We playfully admonished Bernie for his cruelty. And so, a new game was afoot: “Crusty loves you sooo much!” “Crusty knows today will be better than yesterday!” And it never was. Almost without fail Bernie would tear into this crimson wannabe. We were impressed by the strength of Bernie’s rehabbed neck muscles and awed at the display of temper from our little dove. Crusty continued to help with Bernie’s “rehab”.

Crusty was presented to Bernie on the date of his first anniversary with us. As intended, our plan was a complete failure—but a source of great fun for everybody! 
Today, having been beaten into total submission, Crusty is a common fixture in any one of Bernie’s haunts. The gaudy ersatz cardinal, showing much wear after four years of torment, is no longer hopeful, but finally tolerated.

THE PASSION CUBE

Everybody likes a special place to hang out, a home away from home, as it were. Bernie is no different.

She knew it would be a hit when she first spied it at a major grocery store. As Judy described it to me, I saw the potential too. When she brought it home, I knew she’d found a winner. I immediately dubbed it, the “Passion Cube”.

This is a finely made, ornate, upholstered cube, with two symmetrical portals on adjacent sides. It features plush construction with no hard bracing. My guess is, that it’s made from die-cut foam, sandwiched between a soft, long pile interior and linen outer panels. Sturdy welting joins the six sides. Intended for kittens and ferrets, this is perfect for a discriminating pigeon seeking a place for a chance encounter, or just to “hang” in the off hours. 

Once again, Judy was right—this was an immediate hit with Bernie!

Bernie winks, flirts, moans, grunts, twitches, pulses and complains from his toasty lair. His hot little body generates surprising heat, in the well-insulated space. He naps at length…And woe befalls any Spider Creature brazen—or careless—enough to closely approach the Passion Cube! 

FAMILY AND FRIENDS

“My God, is that a pigeon?” I’ve heard this more than once with company over. Since he is a worry getting underfoot, we usually keep him secured until people settle in. Then he’s released, eventually to wander into the populated room. Judy or I generally greet him as we would anybody: “Hi, Bernie!”

Bernie is pretty fearless. He will scrutinize each guest and invariably land upon or near anybody occupying one of his spots. Reactions vary. But given half a chance, Bernie wins the affections—or grudging admiration—of anybody that takes the trouble to know him. 

“What is it with you guys?” I have asked on many occasions of Bernie, Ricki, Zigfried and Little John, (the latter three are iguanas). Every morning it’s the same. Bernie gets up in a foul mood. Regardless of the pains we take to assure a peaceful nights sleep, Bernie is definitely not a morning person. Perhaps he needs the pigeon equivalent of coffee. At any rate, he gets up plenty cranky. He twirls and complains,
then gets his bearings and charges off for morning inspection.

“Admiral on the bridge!” is frequently called as Bernie enters the kitchen, his head held high and feathers dragging. Invariably he makes for the iguanas and puts on quite a show! It’s always a standoff, with feathers splayed and dewlaps extended. This behavior has got to be genetic.

At this point, often as not, he demands sex. He courts his favorite shoe, deftly
jumping over the instep and circling the object of his desire with his feather cape dragging. Within moments the shoe’s been had. Bernie departs the scene with an audible whoosh of feathers dragging on the carpet. He looks a little like Darth Vader from the back when he does this. His disposition changes noticeably. Again, there is nothing about this little creature that I find repulsive. I can only smile.

I read this over and I realize that most will find the whole thing anecdotal. Well, in that context, so was your birth; so was your wedding; so was the funeral of a friend;
so was the finest piece of music you ever heard—or composed; so was your favorite color; so are all the little things that make all the difference. I don’t pretend to be the first that has noticed, “little things mean a lot”. In the final analysis, that’s pretty much all there is.

As I close this, he is near, head held slightly crooked as he preens. Purple and emerald, graphite and ruby, the feathers on his graceful neck are iridescent in the light.
The white stockings are plain to see on his red legs. His ebony nails shine on his rhubarb toes. Pigeon toes. He has come a long way in five years. He has even regained very limited flight. Soon he will want to cuddle or play. After Judy gets home there will be bonding before bedtime. Love twigs and thistle seed. Pijjy kisses and things. I certainly know where the term, “Lovey Dovey”, comes from.	

Revised December 2000 

Raymond P. Buchholz
608 North 114th Street 
Wauwatosa, WI 53226


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## Pigeon_boy (Dec 22, 2000)

I had a bird in a race and he didn't come back for three months I gave up hope then one morning there he was so don't lose hope.


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## Pigeon_boy (Dec 22, 2000)

I had a bird in a race and he didn't come back for three months I gave up hope then one morning there he was so don't lose hope.


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## lukekerttu (Jan 9, 2001)

yeah my pigeons i had for almost a year it will be a year this summer and they are still scared of me why are they still scared of me? i got them to eat a little from my hand but every time i go to see them they fly to the top corner of the loft why do they do that i'm nice to them i let them fly in the summer but they still don't like me if you can help me please e-mail me a 

[email protected]
PLEASE Luke Kerttu


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