The Mourning Dove

I bump into Floyd just about every time I go to the store.  It seems like he’s always picking up something.  Chips, milk, beer.  Mostly beer.  I was picking up some ingredients for my wife’s chicken pot pie when we ran into each other just outside the front door.  He was telling me about an argument that he got into with his wife Dorothy.  I don’t know too many women these days named Dorothy.  It’s one of those names that seems like it’s being saved for the archives for future archaeologists to ponder over the meaning of why our society chose certain names for their children.  Like, Floyd, for example.

“She asked me to fix the railing on our deck.”  Floyd began to complain.  “So, what does she say after I worked all day Saturday and Sunday on it?  ‘It’s still broken, I might as well call a real repairman.’  Can you believe that?”

“Some nerve!” I agreed wholeheartedly.  Dorothy is one of those people who likes to see all their choices displayed out in front of them.  They’re unable to visualize things like most people, and therefore, have trouble communicating exactly what they want.  “Right?  I mean, if she thinks I’m such an incompetent carpenter why didn’t she just call the handyman in the first place?”

“She’d rather see your weekend ruined by doing something you clearly don’t want to do.” I chimed in.  “That’s what all women want, isn’t it?  That’s her way of spending time with you.”

“Well, she could think of a lot better ways to do that than having me bust my ass over something that’s just going to be taken care of by someone else!” Floyd argued.

None of it made any sense to us, of course.  Floyd and I had been over this territory hundreds of times.  We were beyond trying to figure out the subtle nuances of women and their behavior and trying to decode the complex system of words and sentences that, while even though we all spoke the same language, there continued to be huge gaps in the translation of exactly what they were trying to say to us.

Just at that moment when Floyd and I were beginning the griping part of the conversation a mourning dove came in for a landing about five feet away from us.  These birds were fairly common in this area, although they weren’t as annoying as pigeons were.  Doves keep to themselves, whereas pigeons were always looking for a handout.  The dove made that wing-whistle sound that this particular species of dove makes whenever they take off in the air or come in for a landing.  We noticed that he was carrying a small stick in his slender beak.  He walked a few inches to a spot in the middle of the sidewalk, circled it a few times and then placed the stick on the ground.  He momentarily paused to look up at us with his right eye and then promptly flew off.

“That was weird,” Floyd said, sneering.  “So anyway, Dorothy wants me to spend next weekend digging up all the weeds in the back corner so she can start her herb garden.”

            “See?” I began.  “She’s filling in all your free time with chores.  That’s what they do,” I encouraged.

We jawed it up for several minutes more until the dove returned carrying another twig.  He walked around the first twig a couple of times as if he was surveying where the best spot to place that second twig.  And wouldn’t you know it, he placed the second one slightly angled on top of the first one, glanced at us for a second, and then flew off.

This time, Floyd and I sat there in a moment of silence, not quite sure what was going on here.  Neither of us were the outdoorsy types.  We wouldn’t dare to try and figure out what this animal was up to when we couldn’t even figure out what our own wives were up to in the same house we were in. 

“Is this bird building a nest right here in the middle of the friggin' sidewalk?” I finally asked. 

“Either that or he’s planning on making a little mini bonfire,” Floyd chuckled.  He always chuckled at his own jokes.  I got his sense of humor even when most people didn’t.  Clearly, doves have no way of harnessing fire and, I would be willing to wager, have never, in the history of doves, intentionally used fire to better their lives in any way, which is probably why I laughed.  Imagine several doves sitting around a giant bonfire made of popsicle sticks, roasting seeds or whatever it is the hell they eat.  Ha.  Ol’ Floyd cracked me up sometimes.

Just then, the dove returned, this time with a bundle of sticks clenched in his beak.  He landed roughly, taking several wobbly steps to correct his balance.  Way back in the recesses of my primitive brain a signal went off and I immediately recognized the subtle signs of the dove's quick, alarming movements and distressful willingness to take on more than he can handle.  He immediately dropped them and began arranging the twigs in a circular order around the original two, weaving them together for more strength.  He walked around, head bobbing back and forth, inspecting his work. 

It’s difficult to know what birds are thinking or what’s going on in that tiny little head of theirs.  Their brains must be the size of a pea, and yet, here they are flying around, building nests, laying eggs.  My brain must be at least the size of two doves and I can’t figure where my car keys are half the time.

It’s also hard to know what birds are looking at until they turn their head sideways and stare at you with one of their deep, black eyeballs.  This is what the dove did.  He stared for quite a while this time, longer than Floyd and I had anticipated.  As expressionless as a dove’s face is, his frequent glances at us seemed to say, “Don’t you guys have somewhere to go?”

For the next hour or so the dove returned again and again, bringing more and more twigs with him, weaving everything into a nice circular nest, right in the middle of this sidewalk.  Fortunately, there wasn’t a whole lot of foot traffic, so someone accidentally stepping on the poor dove’s work wasn’t a problem for now.  Floyd and I did steer the occasional pedestrian around the tiny creature’s handiwork and gave a little impromptu description of what was going on, as if we were field guides on some safari somewhere.  At some point, I began to think, we’re going to have to go home and then this guy is going to be on his own.  I began to worry about how this little guy is going to keep people from trampling all over his nest right there in the middle of the sidewalk.  This is what always happens to me, I get myself involved in these little situations that have nothing to do with me and the next thing you know I’m standing guard over some dove’s sidewalk nest which shouldn’t even be there in the first place.

On his final few trips he began bringing tiny pieces of cotton, gently stuffing them into the center of the nest.  He arranged to small pieces of soft fabric into a pillowy little bed that, given its size, looked pretty darned comfortable, I had to admit.

            The dove seemed pretty pleased with his work, even a little relieved.  He flew off. 

            “I’ve gotta say, that’s a pretty nice looking nest,” Floyd finally commented.  “I’ve never seen a bird build a nest before.”

            “It’s amazing what they can do with just their beak,” I genuinely marveled.

Suddenly, two doves came swooping down next to the nest.  It was our guy and this time he brought his mate with him.  She was slightly smaller, but way more aggressive when it came to inspecting the nest.  She got to work right away, poking and tugging at the tiny home.  Her head’s bobbing was more intense and had more of a severe purpose as she began picking at the nest, tearing small bits of it apart.  If this is what passes for constructive criticism in the dove community, I’m sure glad I’m not a part of it.

            “What’s this?” she seemed to ask him.  “What is this?  Do you think this is the right location to raise a family?  Right in the middle of a sidewalk?  What’s the matter with that tree over there?  Is there a reason you didn’t build this in the tree like regular birds?”

            The male dove sheepishly tried to repair parts of the nest that the female had begun to demolish.

            “Don’t you think all this foot traffic would be a little upsetting for the children?  Hmm?”  She seemed to really be handing it to him and Floyd and I couldn’t help but to feel a little sorry for the guy.  He worked on that thing for quite a while and now here she was tearing it all apart.

            “That’s the last time I let you be in charge of building the nest!  Jesus Christ!”  I imagined her saying again.  The female dove walked away in a huff, angrily bobbing her head front to back.  “It’s like my mother always told me, if you want something done you just gotta do it yourself!”  I continued her dialogue in my head for several more minutes.

And with that she flew off.  The male mourning dove slowly walked around his pathetic nest that had now been reduced to a mere pile of twigs and cotton.  With his beak, he reached for one of the twigs, perhaps in a last, desperate attempt to try and correct his mistake.  There was no point.  He dropped the twig, bobbing his head as he walked away.  He then turned his head and cocked it, glancing up at us one last time.  We stared back at the dove, this time with a fresher understanding.  No words were spoken.  None were needed.  We were all on the same page here.  Floyd and I nodded in silent solidarity at the dove and he nodded back.  He took a couple of steps and flapped his wings, making that wing-whistle sound that doves make when they fly away.

Floyd finally interrupted the reflective silence,  “So, what’re you doing tomorrow?”

I took a moment to tie up the loose ends of what I had just witnessed in my head and get back on track in the real world.  “Think maybe I’ll go to the hardware store and pick up a new shovel.  My old one’s about had it.  It’d make it easier digging up those weeds.”

Floyd stared at the ground.

"Give me a call when you go.  I may need to get some soil.  Dorothy's planting a new herb garden."

"I will."

We both took one last look at the shambolic looking nest on the sidewalk and we parted ways.