'Twas a gloomy day in the northeast of England. The clouds loomed overhead and released a stinging mist as I dragged the heels of my boots to a Friday afternoon screening of "Richard the Third." Like the sky, my mood was dismal, and the wind was having a swift talking to with my flapping umbrella. With white earbuds in and Tame Impala drowning out the bustle of campus, I continued on.
Before long, the wet and squeaky grass of Earlham Park began to appear on my right side. As I approached the center of campus, I began to make out a young man with a receding, yellow hairline bent over on the side of the park. I didn't think much of it. Maybe he was tying his shoe. Maybe he had dropped something. Maybe he was taking an SnapChat of an insignificant yet artsy blade of grass. But no. As he stood back up, I could tell that he was cupping something in his hands.
It was a pigeon! Okay, not too odd for England, but usually pigeons don't like it when you get near them. I speak from experience, considering sometimes I'd get the overwhelming urge to pick one up, but they would never let me get anywhere close. Their little legs would scuttle away as their heads bobbed up and down. He had succeeded in where I had failed! I was perplexed and stopped in my tracks. I watched for a moment as he softly stroked its gray feathers with his free thumb. I frantically searched my brain for a reason as to why he was grasping it so lovingly in his hands. Was it injured? Was it ill? Was this for mere sport? Checking my watch, I couldn't observe for much longer and continued on to class. However, I found myself extremely intrigued.
By the end of the screening, my thoughts were lying more with the murderous rampage of Richard III than with this pigeon incident. I then began to think about whether or not the chicken breast in my fridge had thawed through rather than this pigeon-obsessed dude with a widow's peak. Outside, the clouds had opened even more, and the mist had turned into thick pellets that seemed to stab your eye sockets. My rain jacket was failing me, as the water droplets soaked it through.
As I was walking the reverse way home, I saw a figure quickly running through the falling rain in the street. You could hear the sound of his squishy converse pounding on the pavement, as he sprinted in a white soaked tank top. The closer he got the more I recognized him.
His large forehead shined as he kept looking down at something cupped underneath his wing. Through the rain, I could see some feathers poking out in between his wet fingers. It was the pigeon! Clutched in this man's grasp, this pigeon was pheasantly staying calm. Why did this man still have it? It had been four hours! And more so, why was he sprinting down the street? In the pouring rain? In the middle of the road?
Everyone around me was just as bewildered, as they watched this man dash full speed down the slippery pavement. They stopped in their tracks, and let the rain pour down around them, observing this bizarre scene. Once he was far enough in the distance, I started back home again, still confused.
Upon returning home, my mind was consumed by this debacle. Apparently my flatmates had also seen the pigeon man sitting in Earlham Park with the pigeon. He had apparently been sitting there for hours, stroking the pigeon. What a strange occurrence. I can only hope that this odd man was giving it the care it needed. But other parts of me wonder if he had ulterior motives. A random event, to say the least, but I guess the world will never know what happened to this widowed-peaked fellow and his gray-beaked foul.
