We have poogeons living in our street. They have been there for some time and their airborne escapades are very evident – on our deck, solar panels, outdoor furniture, house walls, windows even. I can imagine their delight as they carry out bombing raids on neighbouring properties, scoring direct hits as they fly. I wonder what an avian ‘yeeha’ sounds like.
With lots of birds in our area I hear you ask how I can identify the offenders. Well, I have yet to meet tuis, sparrows and starlings that feed exclusively on mash. The ‘deposits’ are unmistakably made of processed meal, that glutinous substance that, when partially digested, has the ability to splatter and stick. I have developed that habit of carrying out property inspections on a regular basis, high pressure hose in hand, ready to expunge evidence as it presents itself. Experience has taught that the sooner the cleansing, the more pleasing the result.
So what deterrents do I have at my disposal? I tried a direct approach to the owner – if one actually owns wild animals. In reality, he approached me. He appeared in my driveway one afternoon asking if I had seen one of his treasured possessions which seemed to have gone missing on its way home from Invercargill. Really? He sent it all the way to the bottom (literally) end of our country and expected it to find its way home. I bet he didn’t even give it a bus fare, not that they have pockets. Now if I was sent on such a mission and made it to within two houses of my destination, I don’t think I’d collapse there without dragging myself past the last two letterboxes. What was he thinking? Or was it a veiled threat that he knows all his birds and he will know if one goes missing? He stopped short of telling me he also knows people who ride motorcycles. Well, I also know people who ride motorcycles. So there.
He has reason to be suspicious of those around him. His neighbour over the back fence has a 12 gauge shotgun and permission from the police to use it for vermin control. Local rumour has it that six of the flying nuisances went missing soon after that neighbour moved in, but that is just a rumour. Local police records will show that an incident was recorded at about that time but no evidence was taken in for investigation.
In desperation I went to a market in Eumundi and purchased a shanghai. Nothing like the home made ones we made with forked branches as kids but still quite effective, I was assured. It even came with spare parts. It seems rubber isn’t as strong as it used to be. On arrival back home I collected up a supply of small stones and sat on the back deck waiting for the circuits to begin. Waiting time was put to good use as I calculated directions of fire that could prove costly. There are the precious solar panels to start with and I knew how much trouble I would be in if damage occurred there. Then there are the plastic houses in which flowers are grown over the back fence and the sound of tearing plastic held no appeal for me. All-in-all, my angle of trajectory was fairly limited but I waited with expectation.
Expectation was all I got as missile after missile flew harmlessly though the tightly packed areal mass of swiftly moving bodies and quickly I ran out of ammunition. Day after day I spent fruitless time in the back yard sending small pieces of stone into the air without appearing to come close to making contact with any of them. Then came the day of triumph. I actually hit one of the flying poo bombers. Imagine my dismay when I observed a slight deviation of flight, a small collection of feathers drifting down but no other discernible effect. I was devastated and sadly hung up the useless weapon in the shed.
My next approach was to the local council and I enjoyed a number of interesting interchanges with various members of their staff. I presented my case as eloquently as I could and was pleased to be listened to and accorded some degree of credibility. However, when all the discussion ended, there was no appreciable difference so I retired in the knowledge that there are some things you cannot beat. Instead, I’ll resort to one of the rhymes of my childhood.
Little birdie, flying high, dropped a spot in Johnnie’s eye. Now, now Johnnie, don’t you cry. Aren’t you glad that cows don’t fly?
It’s always good to have something to be glad about.