Self-Awareness

Yesterday, coming back from collecting Ferretfingers, and some very nice artisan bread, from the Rising Sun Farm, I stopped at our garden gate wondering why there was a small blue car stationary in the street.  Then I noticed a pigeon slowly walking across the road in front of it.  I shooed the pigeon along and the young man driving the car called “Thank you, I didn’t want to run over it.”

I wondered why the pigeon had chosen to walk under number 12’s parked car rather than fly so, after dumping my bags, I went and had a look.  It was actually a very young fledgling squab, which still had a downy breast despite having fully feathered wings and tail.

Thinking it may be hungry or thirsty I fetched some bird food and the small watering can. It looked startled when I threw the seed at it. It was positively alarmed when I poured water into the gutter that ran towards it. So much so it climbed out from under the car and onto the kerb.

With our two and visiting cats around a walking pigeon is a sitting duck so I decided to catch it and put it somewhere safer.  (Yes I know you shouldn’t move fallen fledglings as the parents will feed them, but the cats are more of a danger).  I slowly followed it into number 12’s front garden, noticing its utterly unsuccessful attempts to fly, caught it by the bins and brought it to Fester at our front gate.  Nothing appeared to be broken, it just didn’t have the wing strength to take off.

The big white house that faces down our street has a large and lushly planted garden, a water-feature and two large dogs: a much safer option than our garden. Luck would have it that Mrs Whitehouse was in the front garden trimming some bushes when I went over.  I explained why I was carrying a pigeon and asked if I could put it in her garden as it would be safer there than in ours.  She agreed and said she’d put some food out for it later.  We released it into the shrubbery.

I introduced myself and we chatted about the people who used to live in the white house, and how much Mrs Whitehouse loved it and had changed nothing.  Except for replacing the carpets and windows she’s kept all the original features.

When I got back home I explained to Thunderthighs what I’d been doing.

His anxiety and hatred of out of the ordinary happenings, or people doing things he considers inappropriate, sometimes expresses itself by aggressive questioning in the street or shouting and swearing out of his windows.  These expressions do not go unchallenged by his parents; but I do wish we weren’t the house with the loony in the loft.

“It’s great how much all our neighbours trust you” he said “when I’m such a pillock.”