23 April, 1998 Houston
Among the many pleasant memories I have of the Sixties, there was a brief period when I had a pet PIGEON! Living in a apartment was not at all conducive to having a pet. Being perpetually low on funds did not help the matter in the least.
My mother, never having had a pet, was apathetic towards the idea. My grandmother generally avoided animals, which she viewed as dirty and disease-infested wild creatures best left in their native habitat. (She was very correct in this view!) My grandfather intensely hated cats and dogs - especially cats, but my grandparents did have a great appreciation for birds - while they were in the wild!
So there was nothing in the family pushing me or influencing me to have a pet. But I did have a one - Missy, my white rat. She died some time in 1964, and, just as Missy entered my life, there was to be another creature which, for a brief time at least, would bring me pleasure, and cause a slight bit of commotion in the household.
One Saturday morning in September, as I was leaving the apartment building on Paris Ave., I heard a "peep-peep" sound. It came from nearby, and when I stopped to investigate, I noticed a tiny, gray pigeon nestled by the flower pot just beside the entrance door of our building.
I picked it up. It was very small - not much more than a squab. I thought it would be a great idea to keep it, and took it upstairs to the apartment, where I got busy laying out newspapers on the floor, and prepared a box for it. I had a new pet!
My mother, who never knew from one day to the next what might confront her as she arrived home, was, of course, surprised to see this bird, merrily cheeping away inside the topless cardboard box. She took this event in stride - bearing in mind that she welcomed a RAT as a pet for the last two years. Why not a pigeon?
"Look, Mom!" I exclaimed, picking up the hapless chick,"It's a baby pigeon! I found it downstairs, and I'm afraid he'll die if I don't take care of him."
I was right in this, and Mom knew it. Our apartment building was a veritable rookery for pigeons! They made their nests in the gutter cans, so that a little squab would occasionally fall out of the nest was not a strange occurrence.
To my delight, my mother allowed me to keep him, and I named him "LOUIE," and fed him on bread soaked in milk. This, in retrospect, probably was not the ideal food for a pigeon, but I had the best of intentions, and with TLC and my mushy feed, Louie survived, and thrived!
He grew fast, as pigeons do, and soon enough, grew feathers and began to flap his wings. He enjoyed perching on my finger, and I would move my hand up and down. When I did, he would flap his wings to keep his balance. I did it so he could strengthen his muscles and develop his wings.
Man was not meant to take to the skies - at least not like a bird - but birds were. My Louie would be no exception. I had no intention of keeping him and depriving him of his freedom. He was a free bird, and needed to learn how to fly.
It was time to teach Louie to fly!
In the back of our apartment building there was a very small playground. Here my fledgling took his very first brief, awkward flights. I would throw him up into the air, and stood ready to catch him in case things went wrong. Terrified but stalwart, he flapped his wings furiously and headed straight to me and safety. We repeated these trial runs for several days, taking care to not overdo things.
Mom and I visited my grandparents one weekend, and, of course, I brought Louie along. My grandmother was sitting on the large wooden swing in the back yard, enjoying the breeze.
I emerged from the kitchen, bird in hand, exclaiming:"LOOK, MonMon, I'm teaching Louie to fly!!" As if to illustrate my words, Louis flapped his wings to show off.
MonMon replied, not too happily, "Look out with that bird! First think you know he'll fly at ME!"
Famed clairvoyant Jeannie Dixon never made a more prophetic statement. I raised my hand and lowered it to have Louie flap his wings for her, and off he went... flying straight at MonMon... Landing right in her wig!! Poor MonMon! She was beside herself, and did she make with the "I-told-you-so's!"
Poor Louie! He was also upset about all the commotion! I'm just very happy that he didn't "leave a package" in MonMon's wig!!
Needless to say, "High Mass" ensued, with all parties getting into the fray. Eventually, when everything settled down, I showed MonMon and PawPaw that Louie could indeed fly - more or less - and he did! I threw him up into the air, and he spread his wings and made a small circle overhead, he quickly plummeted toward the earth, trying desperately to make it back to me.
Like a good guardian, I extended my hands upward and Louis came to rest safe and sound. It was not yet time.
We returned to the apartment, and a few days later I decided to get a few photos of Louie, posing him where I found him and having Mom getting a shot or two of him flying where he made his first flight.
Some days passed and Louis seemed ready to join the ranks of those of his kind. No free bird would ever be held captive by me! Mom and I returned to my grandparents', pigeon in car. The day had come.
I got out and PawPaw and I went in the back yard. It was time to say goodbye. As before, I threw Louie high up into the air, and he flew around as if he were made to fly.
He was indeed made to fly, and he soared overhead for a minute, and then gracefully descended and perched on my waiting hand. PawPaw was impressed, and we talked a little while, and then, once again I threw Louie up into the air. This time he gained altitude and flew in circles high overhead - and then he was gone.
It was sad that he chose not to return, yet at my 13 years I understood that a Louie had his own life to live. He was part of my life for a few brief weeks to care for, but his life was his own, as was his freedom. He was not my possession. I knew that even though I may have cared for him, it was time for him to go his own separate way. That is how life is.
A week or so later, PawPaw called me to tell me that there was a pigeon that looked a lot like Louie siting on the rooftop of the shed. He said the bird stayed for a few minutes, then flew away. He never had pigeons on his property, so he noticed it. I suspected it was Louie, stopping by for a visit.
On my next time there, while swinging on the little swing that PawPaw made for me, I noticed a pigeon, sitting on the rooftop of the shed, watching me swing.
"LOUIE!" I called out, in hopes he would recognize me, and I put out my hand, extending my fingers for a perch, as I had done many times before. He would always come to me whenever I did that, at least when he was learning to fly.
He glanced my way, then he raised up his wings, and flew... up into the air, high overhead, once in a great circle over the yard as it to say:"LOOK! See what I can do!"
His tribute flight completed, he banked toward the left and then he was gone.
Neither I nor my grandparents ever saw a pigeon in the back yard again. I was happy, though. I knew that at last Louie could fend for himself and could make it on his own.
I did what I was supposed to do - and he did what he was supposed to do.
Louis would be the first in a line of some six or seven pigeons that I took in and nursed to maturity and taught to fly. I named each one Louie, with a number after. To distinguish one from the other. None, however, did I raise from such an early age, and none stayed with me as long as Louie.
EPILOGUE:
As I taught a bird to fly, I, too, learned a lesson the day Louis flew away for the last time.
I learned that, no matter how much you love someone or some thing, that creature has its own distinct individuality and identity, and is entitled to rights - above all the right to its freedom. A pet or a loved one may be a part of your life for awhile, but often fate decrees that that time should one day come to an end and you must let go, even if it hurts.
I once saw this written somewhere:
"If you love a thing, let it go.
If it returns to you, it is yours;
If it does not, it never was."
As the century comes to a close, it is a lesson which I must learn again.
