If I’m making these pigeon stories up, may a scientologist walk into my office and “audit” me right now.
Yesterday, a pigeon played Pigeon with me whilst I walked down Grant Street.
That game pigeons play where they fly directly at your head like a Ho-Ho headed for the mouth of a hungry Burgher and then at the very last second, just as you are about to let out a girly scream and hit the pavement, they put on their wing brakes, come to a complete hovering stop like a hummingbird, and land at your feet as if all, “Whoa! Sorry about that, PittGirl. I didn’t see you standing there. Ha-ha.”
I don’t buy it for one minute.
I buy pigeon-frying Tasers.