As reported in the New York Sun, November 12, 2007, when New York City councilman Simcha Felder had the audacity to put forward a proposal to rid the city of its pigeons by putting a ban on people feeding them, there was a public outcry. It seems that despite Woody Allen’s proclamation in the play 'Stardust Memories' that pigeons are ‘rats with wings’, there is a love-hate relationship with the winged ‘homers’ that seldom stray more than a few blocks from their roosts. But why is this?
Is it the result of nostalgic hunters who remember shooting wild pigeons for sport; or travelers who can’t imagine Trafalgar Square without pigeons; or the influence of Iranian Kaftarbaz who sell their birds for between $200-1000 per bird? Whatever the reasons, I doubt my friend George would have been thrilled with the New York City councilman’s proposal.
George lives in the suburbs, near a highway, in an area that until recently was farmland. He has invited me to see his set-up of pigeon coops. George raises and shows pigeons.
The Tour of the Pigeon Coops
I spot a trailer sitting in the driveway with bird cages on it so, to begin my tour I ask what it's for. George explains that he uses it to transport the birds to shows on the weekends. He adds that he occasionally sells them at the Comber auction on Tuesdays, interjecting that there is a large livestock section there.
We reach the first of the coops and as George unlocks the door and walks in, I follow. There is a bottom section where the supplies are kept and a screened-in section, reached by a ladder, where the birds roost.
He points to his birds, says they are Birmingham 'Rollers' and explains that two pairs are nesting. But I already know what they are and that they are so named because they fly up high, then tumble backwards before righting while still in flight; I had several of them as a kid.
I ask George if he ever culls them. I know that to keep a good flock you have to reject inferior birds; and usually by killing them. He replies,“Oh yes! Have to!” as he walks to the next coop.
As we continue to walk between the coops I inform him that years ago a close friend of mine- actually his father- closed in the top portion of his garage and built a flyway out the back for his pigeons in order to keep all his birds together. George informs me that a friend of his has a setup like that and that it’s good for when it’s cold outside. I respond by telling him about the time when I built a coop for my few pigeons.
I first relate the story of how I came home from elementary school one day, discovered some lumber piled up on the driveway, and immediately decided to use it to build a pigeon coop; how I cut and nailed the pieces together using a plan only in my head- a closed in section with a flyway in front, and off the ground on stilt-like legs. Then I explain the catch; that many years later I discovered from one of my sisters that my dad was furious because he’d had the lumber delivered for the addition being built behind our house. Unbeknownst to me I was saved by my mother.
George smiles, and then as he enters the last coop asks if I ever had racing pigeons?
When I answer that I never did, he shocks me by pointing to two large ones and informing me that they are for eating. Immediately, however, he calms me by admitting that he only shows his, adding that this type of pigeon is a delicacy and that one can buy them at the auction.
Of course, never having eaten pigeon I ask what they taste like, expecting the answer to be 'chicken': when people can’t explain the taste of some exotic food, they say it tastes like chicken; which is more psychologically appealing than saying it tastes like octopus. As expected he says it tastes like chicken.
I then tell George that I had Rollers, Magpies, and Fantails, but also some pigeons that looked like owls. I quickly add that I didn’t have them for long because they flew the coop and ended up at the feed mill down by the tracks. I then inquire if he ever had pigeons that looked like owls and he responds that his friend had some but doesn’t elaborate.
I realize time is getting on and advise George that I need to leave. "This was great! Maybe I’ll see you at the auction,” I say.
A Canadian Kaftar-baz
I’m sure that I could label George a Kaftar-baz, Persian for a person who plays with the birds. But I wonder if the New York City councilman cares. He probably agrees with Woody Allen.
James Gibson - James Gibson is a retired teacher and small business owner. He is a published writer and has a wide spectrum of interests.
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