I was sitting in the High Street, outside M & S, waiting for Sue to finish buying up the whole store.
A chap came up and had a carrier bag of tit-bits for the pigeons.
They seemed to know him and flew down for a bit of lunch.
How healthy they looked with most of them still having their legs and toes.
In London practically all the pigeons look tatty, have no feet or are dragging a leg because it was entwined with cotton, wire or some other form of ligature.
Previously I had been sitting, waiting for the train, on Marylebone Station.
A couple of pigeons were gleaning what they could on the concourse.
There it was.
One had a definite limp with cotton wrapped around its leg, a ligature almost severing the foot.
How could I ignore it?
I went into M & S and bought some biscuits.
The plan was to entice our pigeon to come within distance then I could pounce and grab.
Did this without any trouble. Then to untangle the cotton from its leg.
As I started to unwind it the leg started to bleed profusely.
From being a hero I had become a villain who made pigeons bleed.
I stemmed the bleeding with tissues and getting a box, once more in M & S, I took my bemused pigeon back to Tiggys where, once the cotton had been removed, the leg could be sutured back together.
The true endorsement of the pigeon that I witnessed was in St Mark’s Square in Venice.
The local council had banned the sale of pigeon food. I was in Venice where a group of tourists in wheelchairs were having a fabulous time feeding the pigeons. They were loving every minute of it.
Leave the pigeons be.
Somebody loves them.