The Pigeon

I knew there was something odd and troubling the instant we heard the “thu-thump” sound outside our bedroom window. We live on the fifth floor of an apartment building situated in the hilly northwest section of the Bronx. The loud second “thump,” sent my blood racing, jolting my wife and me from our bed.

“What was that?”she asked.

“It’s nothing, probably pigeons. What time is it?” 

“5:30.” As she said it, another loud “thump” accompanied by a sharp “screech” echoed into the room. “That’s not nothing. Pigeons don’t sound like that.” We both wanted to know, needed to know, what was out there on top of our air conditioner making such frightful sounds. When I didn’t move, she threw the covers off. I grabbed her arm. “I’ll go.” I tried to sound brave and assured, but could feel my hand trembling as I thought about what I would see on the other side of the glass. Without opening the blinds, I peeked through the slats and saw the unmistakable talon of a large predatory bird clamped on top of a smaller animal. My stomach sank. “Holy shit,” I said. I moved away from the window. Only the glass and curtains separated us, this huge bird and me. I wanted no part of it.

I’ve watched nature shows and watched the young wildebeest get clenched between the teeth of the opportunistic crocodile and understand the brutality of natural selection. I even understand my own evolutionary protection, being part of the genus “Urban Male-icus” who bears little distinction from his counterpart “Urban Female-icus.” But, as aware of the natural order as I am, nothing, not high school biology, not the Nature Channel, nothing prepared me for what I saw.

“What is it?” my wife whispered, probably not wanting to antagonize whatever it was that I had reacted to.

“It’s a falcon or a hawk, I don’t know. With its catch. It’s using our air conditioner as a table,” I said.

“Probably a hawk.” She pulled the cover up to her eyes. I guess she hoped it would somehow muffle the sound. “Ugh, that’s disgusting.” Thud. Scratch. Thump. “It’s killing the poor thing. I hope it doesn’t leave the carcass there.”

I thought about that. About how the final opportunity for the modern, civilized, urban male to fulfill his gendered role is to remove dead animals from the attic or garage, kill large insects that venture inside the house, and check noises in the night. Now I had to add clean up the mess of entrails and mutilated parts and blood on top of air conditioners to the list. Would I use a mop or a broom and push it off the air conditioner? Let it fall the five stories into the community garden below and have one of the unsuspecting gardeners happen upon it? Or would I don a few pairs of heavy-duty gloves and wipe up the gory remains? Who was I kidding? I wasn’t going to touch any part of that kill.

“Thump. Thump. Thump.” That bird was tearing into its meal, shredding it. I returned to bed. We both realized there was little to do, but wait. Some other manlier soul may have opened the shades and tried to shoo the beast away. Perhaps, they may have grabbed a camera to film the massacre. I slid under the covers and listened. I knew my wife was listening as well, but neither of us spoke to one another. We just lay there imagining what type of animal met it’s natural fate in the claws of this big bird and how close we were to its death.I wondered was it a cat or a mouse? A squirrel? A rat? I imagined how the hawk had scoped it’s prey in the pre-dawn morning and, in one graceful swoop, grabbed it with those powerful talons, then landed upon my air conditioner as the most convenient location to enjoy its repast.

A memory of a sunny Spring afternoon in Brooklyn struck me. My wife and I, out for a leisurely bicycle ride around Prospect Park, came upon a gaggle of bikers huddled upon the roadway. They did not seem connected in any way and they all were staring in the same direction. Curiosity got us. We stopped and followed their eyes. About fifty yards away, a hawk or a falcon, I could not tell which (I still can’t), perched on a tree stump with a squirrel clamped under its powerful claws. Its beak bent down and ripped the little animal. It looked up to swallow. A fascinating and terrible sight. Nature played out its brutal reality in front of us. None of us moved as we watched those mighty jaws do their work. But all of us kept our safe respectful distance.

I tried to comprehend what the subject of this hawk’s meal must have felt in the mortifying moment when it was snatched without warning. Could it have known its life was at end? What biological response did it have as it soared above the trees clutched in the firm grip of the hawk’s talons? How did it feel when pinned under the hawk’s claw, unable to move, as the hawk ripped into it? Did it fight and resist until the hawk was able to squeeze out its last breath? Or did it succumb to its fate without struggle? I couldn’t bear to think about it any longer and only wished the slaughter would end. 

“Thump, scratch, thump.” 

“It’s still there, my wife said. I could hear the horror she was imagining. Almost a full hour had transpired since we heard the initial thump. 

“That’s quite a meal,” I said. “He’s devouring it.” What is the mess going to look like? Who was I kidding? ‘A man’s job’? This modern man isn’t going to touch it. Whatever the bird left behind is probably going to make me retch. I made the decision to call the super once this avian feast ended. 

“You think it’s finished now?” my wife asked. We hadn’t heard anything for a few minutes. Then another unmistakable thump along with a painful screech of an animal being eaten alive. I shifted uncomfortably in my bed. I pitied the poor victim, but could do nothing to help. There was nothing to do, but wait for the bird to finish eating. 

After another fifteen minutes passed without any more gut-wrenching sounds, my wife lifted the covers and eased her way towards the window. I followed closely on her heels. Not wanting to alarm the bird on the other side of the glass, she lifted the slat on the blind ever so slightly. She made sure to raise one of the higher blinds as neither of us were prepared to see the disgusting remains on top of the air conditioner. The bird, tall and elegant, satisfied by his meal, seemed to be waiting for us. He half-cocked his head as he looked through the window from his side. He startled me. I must have shook the blinds as I jumped back . Then he flew off. Gone. 

I knew I had to look. Not knowing what to expect, preparing for the worst, would I see a mutilated face or half-eaten limbs, I opened the blinds. To my horror, or was it delight, only some stray feathers and a smear of blood remained as evidence of the hawk’s hour-long banquet. Another bird had sacrificed its life for the sustenance of this majestic animal. Nature has an order that it instinctively follows. 

 “Almost nothing left behind,” my wife said. We stared at the pristine mess.

We had been silent witnesses to a slow and painful killing. The horrifying thought of how a once living being met its demise in such Darwinian fashion outside my window passed through my mind. The shock, pain, and gruesomeness of such a torturous end to a life left me chilled and breathless. The woeful pleas of its victim had gone unheeded as the hawk tore into its cruel meal. And though I realized the hawk and its pigeon were only following the rule of nature, I was discomfited by the nearness of this carnage. Using my air conditioner as the dinner table for its meal, however, seemed unnatural, out of order, instinct gone awry. Why hadn’t it chosen one of the sturdy trees in the park across the street? 

There is a benefit and privilege to not have to be the hunter or the hunted. The pigeon did not have that privilege. 

“Let’s move the air conditioner to the courtyard facing window,” my wife said. “I don’t want to ever see anything like this again. I don’t want that hawk to come back.”

I could only agree. “Yes,” I said. “We have to try to make sure this never happens again.”