Winged Vermin

Not by nature a violent soul, I am being pushed of late to extremes of cruelty, if only in my imaginings. The objects of my warlike sentiments: the pigeons that perch outside our bedroom window every g-d-m morning and do what I believe is referred to as cooing, though I demand that lexicologists devise another term for this sound. Doves coo, and best of all, at some remove from my bedroom window. Pigeons "broan", or "brind" in a manner to suggest a cross between a stalling car-engine and the dry-heaves of a food-poisoned troll. Until recently the pigeons would make their presence heard at about 6 or 6:30. The past few days, however, I have woken at 5:45 AM in anticipation of them, my whole body clenched for the first sawings of their gullets. Once they start in, so do my visions. In one, I catch the offending beast, and while gazing in its eyes, ever so gently snap its neck. In another, I stand outside my bedroom window with a shotgun, creating little puffs of feather. (Even the soul of pacifism, Thom, muttered something about soaking breadcrumbs in DDT the other day, though I think he has since become inured to the sound.) I cannot say whether the pigeons are aware of the fact that they are at war, though I suspect their leader, a plump beady-eyed rodent with a lecherous swagger, has noticed a breakdown in diplomatic relations. My attempts thus far at detente have included setting up a fan in the window for white-noise purposes, and while a short, sharp "shush!" out the window usually takes them by surprise, it is never very long before they regroup for a second skirmish. This must stop. It is time for the big guns. This weekend I buy a plastic, yet remarkably lifelike painted owl I have for some time coveted in the local dollar store window. Birdman MacArthur, your "grompelling" days are numbered!