The pigeon problem

There are many mysteries hiding in a big metropolitan city like Chicago. One of my favorite vagaries to ponder: where do dead pigeons go?

Look around you in Chicago; there are pigeons everywhere. Our neighbors in lovely Logan Square have a pigeon roost problem. When I walk the dog, we hear, “Coo-coo. Coo-coo,” like turtledoves nestled in a tree, but really it’s pigeons in the eaves. When I sit to eat lunch outside my downtown office building, gangs of pigeons stalk me, waiting to see if I’ll drop a pretzel. Standing on an open-air train platform, I see pigeons standing on top of mounds of guano. They have dirt-streaked feathers, they’re missing parts of their feet, some are scrawny and starved, others are cocky and fat. Gross.

But what happens to dead pigeons?

When we first moved to Chicago in ’98, it perplexed me to no end to wonder where pigeon carcasses go. If there are so many swarms of live pigeons, statistically there are flocks of dead pigeons somewhere.

The first time I saw a dead pigeon, I was ecstatic. I was standing on the Belmont platform outside Milio’s hair salon, waiting for either a Brown Line or Red Line train to take me to the Fullerton stop. And, there, on the ledge that wraps around Milio’s building, there was a dead pigeon with his little stick legs popped up in the air. I felt my throat get tight I was so excited. I tensed my arms and balled my hands into fists to keep from clapping in glee. I grinned like the cat that swallowed the canary. My first dead pigeon sighting.

Since then, I haven’t wondered as intently about the dead pigeons, but I am very excited when I see a new carcass. Last night was a whammy.

First, Matthew parked his car with the front passenger wheel square on an already deceased pigeon. I laughed and pointed it out to Matthew. Second, after walking a few footsteps from our car, we saw another dead pigeon lying belly-up in the middle of the sidewalk. What are the odds? Third, Matthew asked, “Have I shown you my gruesome dead pigeon pictures?”

“Now you haven’t,” I said. I was a little nervous at the inclusion of the word “gruesome” in his characterization.

“Here, check it out.” He handed me his cell phone.

Sure enough, there were several pictures of different pigeon carcasses. But these were no ordinary dead birds. These were birds that were devoured by predatory falcons of some hawk variety. These were remains of birds that were probably professionally hunted and killed by a pigeon nuisance control falconer, or by highly adaptable urban hawks with a taste for an easy meal. All that was left of the carcasses Matthew showed me were the wings and connective tissue, looking like some surreal artistic statement on the inability of humans to fly.
Now, I love looking at a good carcass as much as the next person, but I think I’ve had enough dead pigeons now. I’m not so concerned about where all the dead pigeons go any more. They’re up in that dove cote in the sky, cooing their little hearts out.