It was about 8:45 AM. My brother, whom I had had a noisy quarrel with a couple of days ago, called me. Of course, I put a ton of ice in my “Hello?” He has some batakari he doesn’t want…I wouldn’t let him finish his sentence––a good enough apology. I told him I would see him very soon. He lives less than five minutes away. 

I saw it before I walked past it. Then as it really registered, I reversed my steps, stopped next to it and peered at it. The head, on top of a gray neck imbued with metallic blue-green-purple feathers, was raised slightly, and the wings sprayed wide on the pavement, unmoving. It seemed tilted on its right side. There were little movements in the neck, and the eyes blinked, seemingly, in a normal way—how do pigeons normally blink? It didn’t look like it was in pain. But it must be in pain. Something was very awfully wrong with it. 

Although I no longer quarrel with pigeons, I knew I would do nothing for it. I don’t know how to help it and even as its misery pierced my eyes, I knew I wasn’t going to be its good Samaritan. I kept walking. The bird, lying hurt and its face showing no pain that I could recognize, stuck in my mind’s eye. 

The batakari, two of them, weren’t top-notch. More like a naive-tourist quality; but not awful. I grumbled. I thought it would be the one I had been coveting, shamelessly, for years now. A beautiful pinkish-red and ivory batakari that was gifted him by one of Mother’s cousins. No one thought to get me one because traditionally, a batakari is only worn by men. I took the pieces all the same. 

On the way back home––I had only visited for about seven minutes with my brother––the head of the bird was now on the pavement like the rest of its––normal size for an adult NYC pigeon––body. The eyes were closed but you saw the eyeballs move behind the lids. I didn’t stop. 

In my apartment building, I waited about three feet next to a masked woman in hijab. A man joined us, three feet away from me, and with a metal dumbbell, he pumped one arm after the other.     

What will happen to the bird? Is it in a lot of pain? Would it prefer to die quickly or to be rescued?   

Jane A. Odartey