It’s awkward and it’s noisy.
He builds a flimsy nest from sticks, disillusioned in thinking his bachelor pad is a penthouse just because it’s high up in a tree. Then he goes to the bar, where he struts around with puffed neck feathers, overselling his shithouse, trying to impress the ladies. Most pigeon girls have very low expectations and settle for brawn and bravado. Going home together is a concluded marriage proposal. The couple is surprisingly happy, but in their defence, the choices are limited and standards low. It’s a redneck society of happy hillbillies.
There comes a time when his urge to pro-create sort of aligns with her wanting some of them babies. As all men know, that alignment doesn’t necessarily have to be a total eclipse, for the urge, unlike the moon, is always full.
The sexual encounter of doves reads like a rape scene from a bad movie. Foreplay doesn’t exist. The perverted, sex crazed husband stalks his wife, waiting for the moment when she least expects it. Mrs sitting naked on a branch drinking her afternoon cup of tea. Then he jumps her. Just like those big-eyed African kids on the backs of their mothers in National Geographic magazines. He drops on her like Batman. And he finishes just as quick.
During the very brief encounter there’s vicious flapping of wings, which prevents him from falling off. Two seconds later, when he’s done, wife sits disappointed amongst a flurry of feathers that is settling around her. Dickhead’s having a cigarette, winks at her with a big geeky smile. He doesn’t realise or care, that he might be considered the worst lover in the world. As far as he’s concerned he got on, got in, got out and and got off. Premature ejaculation is something doves don’t understand.
But pigeon love is weird. It encompass all boundaries. The fact that pigeon guys are poor lovers becomes insignificant in their relationship. Whatever they lack in their bedroom ability, they make up for as partners. Dickhead becomes Dad. And Dad even incubates the eggs so that Mom can get that much needed pedicure and gym session. Her shift starts in the afternoon, so he can watch the game with mates and talk about life, woman and how great they are in bed.
They both understand the need for me-time, because once those squabs break out of their shells, all hell breaks loose in the make-shift penthouse. Dad has to join in and feed crop milk and other forms of vomit to both his little ones in order to ensure that it doesn’t take more than the required 28 days for them to morph from infant to toddler to teenager to young adult to the flying ducks, that he can kick out.
For Dad has urges again.
The moral of my little story is only to enlighten readers that once pigeons start frolicking outside my bedroom window, it means that Spring is approaching.
Mother Nature is about to have her annual orgasm, implying that the flowers will bloom again, filling the fields with more colours than a gay parade, green leaves will sprout and cover the extended arms of naked trees, and the Sun will be forced to stay longer, heating up the days, so that South Africans can Braai outside once more.