The Great Pigeon Massacre

New York has a lot of pigeons - maybe as many pigeons as they have rats. And like every city, there's a bit of a love-hate relationship between the people and the pigeons. Some folks enjoy sitting in the park, surrounding themselves with pigeons by feeding them breadcrumbs and other scraps. Others take a wide berth as they walk down the sidewalk past them, probably thinking they're pretty gross.

I happen to be in that second camp. I don't like pigeons, and I can't imagine how people want to sit with them, much less let them land on them like that crazy man in Florence. At the same time, however, I recognize they're not going to kill me. Worst case, I get shit on - and (knock on wood) that hasn't happened to me yet.

Try telling that to Psycho New Yorker #264352.

Psycho New Yorker #264352 is a mean, nutty, 60+ woman who lives somewhere on the Upper West Side. She was last spotted walking east on 82nd St. between Amsterdam and Broadway. She wears a scowl and a long peasant skirt, and probably responds to the name "Geraldine."

As I'm heading west with Moby around 5:30 p.m. (fresh from daycare) down 82nd, approaching Amsterdam, I stumble upon a gathering of such aforementioned pigeons, snacking on some New York afterbirth. Ew - I don't like it, but I'm already in the middle of a busy intersection with a flashing red hand, and there's not a whole lot I can do about it. Moby, on the other hand, is thrilled. Like some of those pigeon-loving humans, he'd happily dive into the group, thrilled to take them all on - and so he does. Not surprisingly, the pigeons disperse into the air in a flapping, rabid "woosh."

Well, this is just too much for Psycho New Yorker #264352 to bear. Looking right at me, she lets out a loud, angry yell - because, you know, New York is so otherwise perfectly clean and free of nasty things like rats, garbage and pigeons, she's probably never witnessed anything like this before.

I calmly respond that I really can't prevent him (Moby) from making a sudden move towards pigeons. But Psycho New Yorker #264352 has a solution:

"Why don't you cross the street?!!!?!"

Sure, I'll move to the back of the bus while I'm at it, sister.

And then the budding Psycho New Yorker in me yells back, "Because they fly on BOTH sides of the street!!!"

In a confounding response, Psycho New Yorker #264352 grumbles back, "Yeah, right!"

By now, I'd met the eyes of a Wall St. type who managed a smirk. Oh yay, I've made a New Yorker smile!

And Moby and I marched on proudly, recognizing at that very instant the irony of simultaneously sending one person into rage and another into happiness.