Ornithological Rhapsody sans Dove or Rats with Wings

Rudy knows people, and,

because he knows people,

Rudy loves birds.

It is not enough to say that he likes, admires, envies, and adores all

birds — he LOVES them,

wants to marry them,

wants to BE them.

Most especially, he wants to join the lyrical thrush family,

the robins he admired back then,

the shamas he favors now.

But he loves them all —

woodpeckers, barnswallows, eagles, parakeets, budgies, Hartz Mountain

warblers — kid-time favorite comic book: “Blackhawks”.

These days he goes for the high-flying morning flocks of screeching

green parrots and the solitary, tree-skimming, side-gliding white owl

after dark.

Kentucky cardinals, koleas, cowbirds, chubby flocking majiros, silly

geese, and potty-mouthed Donald Duck. Rudy loves all birds.

But Rudy hates doves.

Rudy hates doves for the reasons we all hate those nasty, sneaky,

louse-ridden, sidewalk grifting, shoplifting shitdrippers.

Well, OK, maybe not the official Peace Dove with the olive branch. Of

course not. And not Dove soap, ha ha. But none of this pigeons in the

grass, alas, guano. Huh-uh. Pigeons in the grass can bite Rudy’s

okole.

So he’s standing there like Mr. Clean, arms crossed, proprietarily

admiring his ironwood tree, when he thinks he detects movement at the

bottom of his stairway.

Coo-coo kachoo, there IS movement: fucking doves. Two fucking doves.

Two doves fucking in that awkward, jerky, grabass way doves fuck,

right in his own front yard.

And now he really hates doves. He’s furious. Fucking doves. He’d like

to wring their twisty little necks. Sucking doves!

Rudy catches his breath. “Olive branch,” he thinks. “Peace out, bra.”

He grins, claps his hands hard, makes them sting like rifle shots,

like shotgun blasts. Feathers fluster, flutter, and fly. But not far.

Definitely not away. Like recalcitrants, like people. Like doves.