Spaffy, my male cockatiel, has elevated masturbation to an art form. In the morning, noon, and night I can hear, if not witness, his feathered body rubbing across the toys on top of his cage - da ta da ta da…eek! High C- means Bingo! Not content with the inanimate, he seeks satisfaction in his partner Spiffy, another male Cockatiel. Spiffy is a sexless as Spaffy is oversexed. Everyday the chase is on.
In the evenings I take Ruffy, my female terrier mix, out for her walk. Ruffy loves our walks. New York streets hold promise for Ruffy's palate. She grabs the guckiest things to eat before I can stop her. She's the athletic type and lifts her leg about 10 times each outing. Even though she's female, this male gesture of leg lifting has taken hold. She came from California, so - anything goes.
We're rounding the corner from 89th onto Amsterdam Avenue. This particular Sunday is pleasant. Heavy rains have cleared the air. We're almost home. I like to look at the people. They have the New York hurry and scurry. My imagination works overtime because so many are so good at looking so purposeful. Even the homeless rummage through the garbage bins with an intensity one doesn't find in other cities.
We pass a doorman helping two tenants unload the trunk of their car. Two teenage girls with bare midriffs and very high heels, clickety-click on by. A small group of young men are on their way to the neighborhood restaurant. And there's also another creature bustling along. Give it a copy of the wall street journal, a briefcase and you have the typical New York trader on their way up. But this little one would never make it on the stock exchange. It might not make it much longer on Amsterdam Avenue.
A baby pigeon. No tail as yet, and pin feathers all around its neck. But… oh, so white with little grey stripes and clear black eyes. Maybe it thinks this was the natural course of things - pecking out of its shell, being fed by mama, being flush out of the nest, and now if it could only catch a taxi….. It was doing its part, running back and forth but going nowhere.
Ruffy lunges at it, (a sweet dog, but a terrier nonetheless). I ask a couple of passers by if they would hold my dog. They look incredulous and move on. I tie Ruffy to a short iron fence surrounding a tree. Taking off my black blouse I use as a jacket I gingerly make my way towards the baby. I throw the blouse over it and picked it up in my arms. Safe! -for now anyway.
With pigeon under shirt, the doorman has no clue, as Ruffy and I go our way to the elevator. I put the baby in a blue cage and set it on a wooden card table in my office. I softly play a chanting tape, turn the ceiling light to a soft glow and gently closed the door. Then I remember water and add some spring water to the youngster's new domicile.
Morning brings the hardest challenge - feeding. So with hope and a prayer I apply what I have learned with previous rescues. Wrapping the baby in a dishtowel, I carry it so it gest used to being held, boil water to mix the baby bird formula, stir it and fill the eyedropper with nourishment. It isn't easy. I get three full droppers-worth down its squirming self.
The phone rings. It's my friend Dolores.
"I found a baby pigeon".
"What color is it?"
"White with…"
"Then it's a dove."
"It's a pigeon."
"Does it have a tail?"
"No."
"Then it won't live."
Dolores would probably be right if there weren't the Naomi's of the world. Naomi is the wet-nurse, to baby pigeons. Naomi has saved hundreds of the lost and forlorn. And she says she will take a look at this one.
Naomi's at the door. Naomi oohs and ahhs. It's Ganymede! She always names the pigeons. And their names are almost always celestial. Ganymede is one of the moons circling Jupiter. "It's mystical," Naomi said.
I take Ganymede out of its cage and go through the feeding routine. I'm so successful that Naomi thinks I should keep and nurse it. Ganymede has 3 more eyedroppers full and climbs out of the dishtowel to sit on my shoulder like a companion parrot. I take the feeding utensils back to the kitchen. Ganymede spreads its wings as we turn into the kitchen. Spiffy and Spaffy freak! The wingspan of this white and brown ‘airplane' was too much. Spaffy stops all masturbatory practice, shrieks and flies to the canary cage. Spiffy flies in circles around the living room, hits the window and lands on the windowsill. Both shrieking at the top of their lungs.
Ganymede is to go home with Naomi.
I feel sorry to see Ganymede go, but it's the best thing. I return Spiffy and Spaffy to the top of their cages. We wrap Ganymede in a towel and gently put him/her in Naomi's bag, and all three go down to catch that taxi. Just as we're closing the front door we hear – “da ta da da --eek...high C"—Bingo!