Cats I Have Known.

 

 

Tum Tums, T-Two and Sara.

Tum Tums would jump up onto the bed with a distinct “hello, here I am” kind of chirrup and land in a precise sitting position right side front paw already at his mouth ready for a grooming session. It was a deftly choreographed move and the family, gathered about chatting or listening to bedtime stories, would stop and say as one “Tummies” and sometimes even applaud. Tums was nothing if not cool. I think he would have taken a bow had it occurred to him.

One day a huge swelling appeared on the side of his face. The vet said it was a cancerous tumour and just like that his time was up. He had come to us via Sara, a little black cat with a white bib who showed up out of nowhere one day. She was a feral, barely an adult and heavily pregnant. She was distressed and looking for reassurance. I opened the door and in she came, hissing me off as I reached down to touch her.

She found a bed and a couple of hours later a flood of kittens emerged. When they were weaned she left us and but the kittens stayed with the exception of T-Two. The rest were boys and they hassled her a bit. There was a brief scuffle one morning and off she fled out the door and we never saw her again. Fortunately she’d been spayed so at least she wouldn’t be having kittens.

Sara popped back a for visit every four to six months and might stay for as long as a month if we were lucky. She’d announce her arrival with a very specific call aimed squarely at me and after a voracious loves session that included lots of kneading and heads butts she would settle down to feed.

I was late to marriage and never adjusted to sharing a bed so had my own room. Some of the cats slept with Jane, some with me. When Sara was about the other cats fled (to the warmth and safety of Jane’s bed). She wanted me all to herself and made no bones about it. Nights would be filled with her cuddling close and purring up a storm. Then she would was off. We left that house a few years later during one of her away periods so I have no idea what became of her.

 

Ben.

Ben was a survivor. We lived just off a main road and every cat we had was killed on this road, with the exception of Ben. His wanderlust pulled him in the other direction, down the farm and far from the prescient danger of speeding cars. He was a lean and rangy type who was loving and affectionate at home but elusive down on the farm. I would often see him prowling about along the hedgerows, sometimes impossibly far from the house, and thrilled at the sight would call out his name but he was having none of it running off to the hide at any approach.

When my male cousins came down from the city to stay during school holidays I worried that Ben might fall prey to their habit of shooting anything that moved. They answered my pleas to be careful by promising to kill him on sight. I was an anxious and sensitive kid and they were boys bought up to be proper boys and were rather callous with it. I was always relieved when they went home and Ben was left to do his roaming unmolested.

He liked to sit on the carpet and pull himself along with his front paws giving himself a good bum scratching in the process. It drove Mum to distraction. “Ben” she would hiss while clapping her hands, “dirty boy”. We got him when I was about ten and when I was thirty Mum phoned me and asked if I would take him to the vets to be ‘put down’. He had lost control of his bowels and was becoming ever more confused. “I can’t do it,” she said. It was bloody sad but at least he made it where the rest had failed.

 

Gee Bees and Little Kirry.

Charlotte named most of our cats and Gee Bees was no exception. A derivative of ‘ginger balls’ it was the perfect fit, as was the oft-quoted “Get off the bloody road Gee Bees”. Yeah, he had no idea and we could often be found doing whatever we could to scare him out of this habit. He was a rescue kitten and arrived with a tortoise shell tabby who ended up as Little Kirry. When we eventually moved to the country we found ourselves a magnet for feral strays and before we knew there were cats everywhere.

Gee Bees hated the interlopers and disappeared. We discovered him months later living with some elderly neighbours at the other end of the road. He was fat and happy and they doted on him. For years after we would call in to say hi and he never forgot us rushing out to present his belly from his custom made cat bed and bowl full of specially prepared food. He did well. Little Kirry was another story. Rescued from a household of raucous boys she was shell-shocked and easily startled and forever remained elusive preferring to live outside in all weather coming in only to feed.

She relaxed somewhat the years passed and was in her own way loving and affectionate. She had a particular way of standing up on her back legs to greet a head scratch, but nothing more than that thanks. No picking her up and certainly never any kissing. She loved her food, especially ‘wet’ food from a can. Anything else was meet with an expression that can only be described as disappointed. She always seemed to be at pains to say “Look, I don’t want to seem ungrateful but…….”. She was quite fat when she was caught short by a tractor mowing down the long grasses in the paddock beyond the house. It was a sad end for a cat who turned out to be a gentle if wounded little soul.

 

Bijou, Katie, Boy, Wednesday and Thursday.

I was given Bijou as a gift. She was a Burmese and before I had her fixed she was mated with another Burmese and had a litter. I kept a little female and the rest went off to good homes. Bijou was hit by a car while still very young but Katie managed a long life. She had two litters and I kept Boy from the first and Wednesday and Thursday from the second. They spent their entire lives as a close-knit family unit, sleeping, eating and socialising together.

Katie was something of a control freak and used to like torturing her family with little games the best of which was this thing she did at feeding time. I would put the food out and she would stand over it looking ‘nonchalant as all hell’ as she licked a paw with studied disinterest. Bit by bit the family would inch closer until they were almost in reach of the prize and then Katie would act. A big swipe and everyone would scatter as if their lives depended upon it. When she was ready she would feed and thus sated leave them to it and under no illusion about who the boss was.

Boy was especially devoted to his mother and was the first to die at about sixteen years of age. Wednesday who had a distinct and rather amusing greeting meow died a year later. Thursday who was just about the prettiest cat one might imagine was a superb hunter who was undone by cancer not long after her sister. Katie went blind and lost her faculties and I delayed having her ‘put-down’ through a misguided sense of loyalty and love. Still, she was just about as old as I cat might get when I finally let go. She was always waiting at the top of the driveway when I got home from work and greeted me like I was the last great thing. Who could ask for more?

 

Noggie and Pej.

I was driving to work one morning when I noticed a little black shape on the very edge of motorway. I drove on for bit before coming to the conclusion that it was probably a kitten and taking a deep breath decided to be late for work and spun the car about. It was a busy road and an onerous task but I got back the kilometre or so and sure it enough it was a wee kitten about the right size for the palm of my hand. I put it down on the car floor and phoned Jane and said I was on my way back with a new cat and when we got home he drank his body weight in warm milk. He was hungry and would remain that way for the rest of his life.

Winston, Jane and I proposed all manner of names but Charlotte (as usual) got it exactly right and Noggie it was. He was a complaint cat, the sort that would put up with being dressed in dolls clothes and pushed about in pram for more time than was perfectly reasonable. He decided that Jane was going to be his favourite and that was that. He was devoted her in the same way Peej (another feral kitten we had found and nurtured) was devoted to Charlotte.

I have this abiding mental image of Peej following Charlotte about the lawn with his tail high in the air. His loyalty to her was absolute and though Noggie tended more to broad socialising when push came to shove it all came down to Jane. If she left the house just for a minute one would hear the thump as he jumped off her bed to see where she was going. By the time he found her she was often on her way back in and a comedy of errors ensued as they collided on intersecting paths.

It got really crazy if she got in the car and went off somewhere for any period of time. After collecting an item of her clothing, usually a bra, he would haul it about the house and yard howling with grief before falling into a heap and tangling himself up into a knot with said item. A lot of time was spent detangling Noggie. It was both funny and tragic.

Once he managed to pull her heavy bath towel through the cat door and drag up and down the driveway for two onerous hours. When she got home he was wrecked from exhaustion and went to bed for the rest of the day and by bed I mean the middle of the kitchen floor right under Jane’s feet, tongue hanging out and oblivious to the mayhem he was causing.

To say he was fat is an understatement. He eventually reached the stage where he could no longer clean his bum so we had to clean it for him. We put him on various diets but it made no difference. Otherwise he was the undisputed king of the household and would take each new arrival under his wing and show them the ropes. He was sociable, affable and dominant. If ever one of the kids gave up their spot on the prized seat in front of the TV he would pounce on it and no amount of “bloody Noggie” and pulling would shift him. He would put his ears back and dig in his claws and that was that. He knew his place. Jane was first, he was second. No argument.

He increasing bulk eventually reduced his mobility and I remember watching him size up the kitchen bench one day from the floor. He crouched, put his ears back, waggled his bottom, checked his position, rechecked, made a couple of half-hearted practice flexes then got up and walked away. He knew his limits. Sadly he suffered a congenital bladder condition which would cause him great pain and the vet warned us that his life would be cut short. It was and it was a great loss to us all. Noggie was by and away the most distinct feline I have ever known.

 

Barty.

I found Barty right down the end of farm. He was tiny, ginger and starving. Rickets had warped his bones and he had no strength to resist me, not even the semblance of a hiss. I was living with my paternal grandparents at the time and grandma, long denied a cat by grandpa who was not a fan, took to him immediately and with a bit of feeding and nursing he was soon growing and glowing. I wanted him to be mine but he had other ideas and for the next eighteen years followed grandma about everywhere. Relatives nicknamed him ‘Sylvia’s Shadow’.

After grandpa died Sylvia and Barty went to live in a small unit in town where he slept in her lap by day and at the end of her bed by night. When she went shopping he walked (limped is more like it – the rickets had maimed him for life) with her to the end of the driveway where he waited until she returned. He died of old age four years before she met the same fate. In her hundredth year she told me that she missed him and dreamt about him every night. In the dream she would get back from the supermarket and there he was waiting at the end of the driveway. “I thought you were dead” she said relieved as she bent down to stroke his head. Then she would wake up and go about her day alone and disappointed.

 

Epilogue.

There have been many cats over the years. Little companions with a fierce emotional intelligence and personality variations as distinct as the flavour of each passing day and I remember them all. Annabel, Georgie-Nins, Wendy, Sammy, Cody, Old Sara, Blue. Fierce predators with an independent disposition, funny, amusing, affectionate and loving. Easy to care for with remarkably human centric ways and methods, their short and fragile lives are their only real drawback, that and the grief we endure when we lose them over and again. I am fifty-four now and there will be no more cats for me. I do not want to got through all that again. I have my memories and that is enough.

Feeding The Birds

 

The Kaka, an endangered NZ Parrot.

Back in my homeland, a farm on the dead flat dairy country of the Central Waikato, you’ll seldom see a native bird bar the Wax Eye. This bird is endemic to the South West Pacific and is believed to have first arrived on these shores in the 1830’s after being swept in by way of a powerful storm. (That was the first recorded sighting but one has to wonder that for all the millennia this bird has been about that it took until then to find their way to these islands?)

The Wax-Eye (or Silvereye as they call it in Australia) is classified as a self-introduced native (the faintly comical Pukeko is another) and unlike the actual natives who have withered under the onslaught of aggressive species bought to these islands by settlers who didn’t know any better, the Wax Eye is thriving.

A springtime bird (at least where I come from) it is a delight to feed. Partial to fat, a block of NZ’s finest grass fed butter will draw them in by the dozens and much pleasure can be had watching the social dynamics on display. An otherwise slight handful of yellow feathers, the males can get pretty aggro with each other as they tussle over the best positions from which to tackle the butter.

The feeding frenzy and dominance posturing can otherwise become a bit distracting making individuals easy prey for the family cat so the butter is best placed on high where approaching predators can be easily seen. A fence post or dangling branch does the trick nicely.

The Wax Eye

The Wax Eye has a short season and just as suddenly as it has arrived it is gone unlike the Sparrows, Myna, Starlings, Black Birds, Thrushes, Magpies and Pigeons who are always about. The country Sparrow will eat pretty much anything and are a common sight around the local cowsheds where they feast on the palm kernel and maize silage farmers use to feed the cows feed with when fresh grass is in short supply.

The Sparrows here in the city are a bit different. When they are not eating spiders and insects they are hoovering up crumbs left by people eating on the move but present them with the kind of food their country cousins will attack with gusto and they look a bit blank.

The city Pigeons on the other hand will pretty much eat anything unlike their country cousins who never stop to look at the bread and butter left out for their pleasure. From their roost in the phoenix palms outside the old homestead they head off every morning for feeding grounds unknown.

Unlike the city Pigeon which watches the street with intense precision waiting for someone to drop a crumb or two the country cousin has no truck with humans coming and going in synchronised precision without as much as a ‘by your leave’. Occasionally the cat, unable to resist the call of the cooing bird at rest, will find its way up one of these 70-year-old giants and deep into the fronds only to discover that this critter is a tough customer and that the way down is awkward and difficult.

A little wailing in the dead of night and a precarious adventure with a ladder and torch usually find a satisfactory outcome for all concerned. More amenable to the cats is the odd young pre-flight pigeons that occasionally fall to the ground. A circus ensues as wide-eyed cats gather to dab and prod and otherwise terrorise the hapless victim. An attempt might be made to salvage the wee innocent but once the feline blood lust has flowered there is little hope of a successful rescue.

As in the city, the Blackbird, Starling, Myna and Thrush will gather where there is activity and hang about in a vaguely social manner but I have seldom seen the country cousins tackle a piece of bread or butter – perhaps they are too well fed by the riches of worms and insects available on the wide open land. Their city cousins have an altogether different appetite and will tackle anything. Watching a Blackbird or Thrush gathering bread in a novel sight for me.

There are a couple of four Magpies here in downtown Auckland but they are elusive critters. Sometimes when I happen across one in a park I will stop and stare, enjoying the sight of this intelligent creature doing its thing however the moment they see you looking they are gone, disdain or maybe suspicion writ large in their expression. They seem uninterested in bread, grain and butter preferring to scratch about in the mulch for insects.

The country cousin is no less wary but will often join the other birds feeding on the lawn and nibble at whatever is on offer and with a little time to develop trust a long-term intergenerational acquaintanceship can be forged. Of all the local birds the inquisitive magpie offers some grand entertainment being the playful sort it is but the award for the most entertaining goes to a native, the rarely seen Kaka.

For a while we lived in north of the Waikato on the edge of the Hauraki plains and every year a flock of Kaka, a native parrot, would drop in to feed on the local Kahikatea trees on their way from far off Great Barrier Island to their summer feeding grounds in the Central North Island. About the size of a cat this bird is impressive both in form and temperament.

Starting its adventures with the first light of day they did not let up until deep twilight. When they weren’t practicing aerial acrobatics and screeching up a storm they were teasing the cats and stripping all our citrus of their fruit. Otherwise they might glean a little fun from chasing the odd wayward sparrow or magpie or maybe swing around and around on branches when nothing else was on offer. Both parts easily amused and bored this bird was trouble looking for mischief. Endangered as they are, I thought us very lucky to have an opportunity to see them up so close.

 

English botanist Joseph Banks out here on a voyage of discovery with Captain Cook in the late 18^th century wrote of a vast cacophony of birdsong arising from these islands:

‘This morn I was awakd by the singing of the birds ashore from whence we are distant not a quarter of a mile, the numbers of them were certainly very great who seemd to strain their throats with emulation perhaps; their voices were certainly the most melodious wild musick I have ever heard, almost imitating small bells but with the most tuneable silver sound imaginable to which maybe the distance was no small addition. On enquiring of our people I was told that they have had observd them ever since we have been here, and that they begin to sing at about 1 or 2 in the morn and continue till sunrise, after which they are silent all day like our nightingales.’

Decimated by habitat loss and the introduction of predatory species against which they had no defence, the singers of this vast song have dwindled, their voice now a whisper. The dominant chorus now is one fed by the flourishing legions of introduced birds.

This is the chorus I know best and for as long as I can remember their crowded symphony has been the soundtrack against which I have lived my life. So all pervasive is this song in my psyche that I still hear it when I wake even though I am now far removed from that countryside living in a place where the birdsong is spare.

Birdsong is a vast data stream based on tone and viewed in this way it shows itself to be a thing of wonder. We might marvel at the Internet or the multitude of information rich digital signals floating through the ether but nature has already been there and done that. We are playing catch up at a game the birds have long mastered.

There is tree in the heart of the city that is a magnet for sparrows. Toward sunset they return to roost talk and themselves silly. Their chirping method can sound a bit monotonal but if you listen in carefully and you will hear much subtle variation at work in the basic framework suggesting that a wealth of information is being shared in a very economical way.

These humble little creatures with their sharp eyes are more than the sum of their parts and play a vital role in keeping insect numbers in check while efficiently taking care food waste about the streets. Once eaten this waste is nicely deposited around the trees they roost in offering the plant a neat source of fertiliser.

The city Starlings is smart and very partial to butter and bread, the country cousin uninterested. By the 1970s this introduced species was almost wiped out by the widespread use of D.D.T. Their favourite food was the aptly named Grass Grub. Native to these shores this soil dwelling caterpillar fed on the roots of the grasses upon which the nation built its wealth.

Some clever marketing based on fear mongering and the promise of increased production convinced farmers into drenching their land with this miracle chemical. The hapless Starling feed on the poisoned caterpillar ingested this most voracious of toxins and almost died out. Once the mistake was realised a concerted effort was made help the Starling along and many farms including our own invested in specialised nesting boxes. The population quietly recovered and got on with their efficient method of keeping undesirable insect populations in check.

The Starling

The Pukeko like the Starling was heavily undone by D.D.T but since the chemical was banned it has bounced back with vengeance. They are a common sight across the nation and are often found squashed on the road. The Pukeko has no road sense at all and in its natural habitat is an elusive bird, understandably wary of humans who often single this bird out for the gun.

The closest I have ever gotten to this creature is at the peat dome lake sitting slap bang in the centre of Hamilton. Here the Pukeko has taken on a domesticated quality and will come racing when food is on offer. All legs it is quite a sight to see striding about fighting the ducks for scraps. I remember my farming days and the care that had to be taken when mowing the hay. The long grass made for an excellent nesting sight and vigilance was required to prevent multiple fatalities. These birds keep communal nests and besides the little black babies you will find mum, dad and various aunties. I don’t understand why so many see them as nothing. They are beautiful.

Ducks are a big favourite of mine and though I see few here in the city they are numerous back home. An amenable creature, the mallard duck can become a friend and as with the Magpie, a well-established bond of trust can reach out across the generations with children and grandchildren calling into feed at a place they have been educated to know as safe.

The numerous drainage channels about the landscape provide suitable nesting sites for the ducks including the ones along the roadsides. Occasionally a nested pair will fly up into the air and into the path of a car or truck. Sometimes one is killed and the other will stand over the body for days. It is a terribly sad sight. Ducks have a good intellect and their emotional response to life should not be underestimated.

The other day I came across a lone female Mallard resting in the shade of a tree. I tossed her a handful of grain and she set about an excited quacking. When she finished she waddled up to my feet and lifted her head asking for more. Later I sat on a bench in the park and while tossing bits of bread to the Sparrows was surprised by a wee fellow who landed on my hand and began feeding directly.

I carry all manner of feed about with me and everyone likes bread but it is a nutritionally bereft product and I prefer to offer something more substantial like whole grain and seeds but this is not to everyone’s liking unlike butter which appeals to a wide audience. Nutritionally dense, butter is a grand source of energy and a block attracts a mixed and enthusiastic crowd. Individuals will pull a mouthful free, swallow it then assiduously wipe their beak on the grass before having another go. It’s amazing how quickly a kilo with disappear and how much fun it can be watching it all happen. The best pleasures are found in the simplest of acts.

 

I was bought up to experience non-humans as instinct driven automatons without thought nor feelings and that is how I treated them. My friends and I prowled the countryside wrecking havoc first with our slingshots then air rifles and finally .22 calibre rifles. It was sport, thoughtless, violent and pleasurable.

I thought nothing of it at first, lost as I was in the thrill of the hunt, then after years of deeper observation it slowly dawned on me that these creatures were more complex than I had imagined. As I examined these new feelings I began to feel shame and regret for the pain and suffering I was tossing about like cheap confetti. It was a one- dimensional perspective and I am glad to have laid it to rest. These days my outlook is altogether different and I am appreciative of the wild life that flourishes despite the ravages wrought by humanities steadfast dedication to its own all consuming self-interest.

Sometimes I want to cry out “Put away your smart phones and ear pieces, put aside your cares and anxiety, let go your ambition and haste. Stop, look and listen and be amazed. Hear that bird song, see the ants darting about beneath your feet, walk around rather than walk through that Pigeon looking for food. Take moment and spare a thought and a crumb for those birds gathered at your feet watching you eat your lunch. They might like a little taste as well. Feeding the birds can do wonders for your wellbeing’.

The Pukeko

 

Communing With Pigeons

 

When I moved to Auckland I rented a room off a guy who had an apartment in a newish high rise. At first it was pretty good way up there on the 12^th floor and the first indication that something might be amiss came about the morning I was feeding the pigeons out on the balcony.

Up this point most of my life had been spent in the country surrounded by birds, cats, cows………. you know the usual, and I had always enjoyed feeding treats to whoever was about. Perched up high in this man-made concrete mountain and far away from the familiar I was feeling a bit disconnected and was pleased to discover the pigeons who were only to happy to eat anything I put out for them.

On this morning the guy blundered in after a night out and when he saw what I was doing came straight at me shooing the birds away with all manner of cursing and violent motions. “They are fucking vermin and are nothing more than bloody diseases carriers,” he yelled at me holding nothing back, “and I don’t want you encouraging them and their fucking germs.” “Okay then” I thought to myself opening up my computer to verify that with Google. “Nope” I said to him, “It’s a myth. They are actually pretty clean.” “What the fuck do you know about anything, ” he shot back warming himself up for a day of stomping about and muttering angrily, a fairly standard pattern of behaviour as it turned out.

By the time I left a few weeks later I had figured out he was a psychopath and fortunately for me a pretty stupid one, but he hadn’t stopped me from feeding the pigeons and the few brave sparrows that darted in and out grabbing at bits of food as they could. I realised they were wary of the pigeons and figured that these somewhat comical looking critters might actually have a violent streak about them. Otherwise it great fun, a few scattered crumbs and there they were, a milling mass of disconcerting proportions that never ceased to amaze me.

My next venue was a doss house and one of my neighbours, a man verging on very old, was an avid pigeon feeder. Every morning he would greet the day with a loaf of bread and on first sight of him pigeons would arrive from all corners. I would stand nearby taking it all in, enjoying his commentary on individual birds he recognised by markings, deformities and personality traits. Sadly it all came to an end when an official from the city council hauled him and up and told him to stop encouraging them least he incur a fine. There was some stuff about them being unhygienic and that the feeding was only helping them to breed.

I Googled that last bit remembering some research I had read about a few years earlier that found the best way to stabilise urban bird populations was to feed them. Apparently stressed populations tended to breed while well-feed populations tend toward lounging about in the sun and enjoying the scenery rather popping out offspring. This turned out to be correct and I explained this to the old fellow but he had been put off and stopped what he was doing. It didn’t stop me.

I carry bag of barley with me at all times with something a little smaller like sesame seeds mixed in. These are for the sparrows who find the barley grains just a bit big to handle. Every time I came across a lone pigeons wandering about looking for scraps I toss it a handful of grain knowing a sparrow won’t be far off. I like to think that am making their day a little easier while making mine a little more meaningful.

Most people are indifferent to pigeons. I try to feed them out of the way of the passing crowds but people, owning the world as they do, will blunder on through unnecessarily scattering them in all directions while others will simply go out of their way to kick at them or shoo them off possibly possessed of the same ignorance of my former flatmate. This last bit upsets me greatly and I want to say, “Get off the bloody grass, educate yourself a little, take some care and cultivate some thoughtfulness” but I don’t. I am not sure why.

The negative comment I hear most is: “They have horrible scary beady eyes.” My usual response is to explain that those beady eyes are actually stereoscopic. They can see up, down, front and behind all at the same time (all the better to spot predators with) and in a range of colours that put our own vision to shame. Beady they might be, paltry they are not!

I like the fine, pretty features of the female pigeons and I like the grandiose displays of strutting males on the make. I like the iridescent sheen present in the feathers and am especially interested in those with a missing foot or leg, a reasonably common sight, and wonder how this came to be while admiring the tenacity and adaptability of affected individuals.

For me this urban dwelling bird is a connection to something it is easy to loose sight of in the heart of a big city where life runs at a tempo indifferent to the general rhythms of nature. Pigeons remind me to  cultivate important emotions like consideration and compassion and besides, I enjoy the sheer pleasure of communing just for the sake of it. Unlike people, pigeons make for easy and uncomplicated friendships.

 

 

Pigeons are intelligent and are one of only a small number of species to pass the ‘mirror test’ – a test of self-recognition. They can also learn to recognise letters and numbers.

Pigeons also remember human faces. In a Parisian study two researchers offered food to the birds or chased them away, respectively. When this was repeated over several visits, the pigeons began to avoid the chaser while being drawn towards the feeder, even if they were wearing different clothes.

Pigeons are capable of discriminating between nearly identical shades of colour. Humans, for example, have a triple system of colour perception whereas pigeons photo sensors and light filters can differentiate as many as five spectral bands — making the world for them appear to be a virtual kaleidoscope of colours.

Pigeons are renowned for their navigational abilities. They use the sun as a guide and have a ‘magnetic compass’ built into their brains. A study at Oxford University found that they will also use landmarks as signposts and will travel along man-made roads and motorways, even changing direction at junctions.

Pigeons are highly sociable animals.

Pigeons mate for life, and tend to raise two chicks at the same time. Both female and male pigeons share responsibility of caring for and raising young. Both sexes take turn incubating the eggs and both feed the chicks ‘pigeon milk’ – a special secretion from the lining of the crop which both sexes produce.

Pigeons have excellent hearing abilities. They can detect sounds at far lower frequencies than humans can.

Domesticated pigeons, also known as rock doves, were first depicted in pictographic writing on clay tablets in the Mesopotamian period dating well over 5,000 years old. Some scholars even believe that the birds were kept by Neolithic man as far back as 10,000 years ago.

Although pigeon droppings are seen by some as a problem in modern society, a few centuries ago pigeon guano was viewed as the best available fertilliser and armed guards would even stand by dovecotes (pigeon houses) to stop others taking the droppings.

Pigeons can fly at altitudes up to and beyond 6000 feet, and at an average speed of 77.6 mph. The fastest recorded speed is 92.5 mph.

Many birds are known to perform impressive aerial acrobatics in pursuit of prey or to avoid being eaten themselves, but few of those moves are more impressive than pigeons doing backflips. No one knows for certain why some types of pigeons roll backward somersaults in flight, though some suspect that it’s done simply for fun.