Last Friday, as I was walking toward the Back Bay train station in Boston on a sunny afternoon, I came upon a crowd of people chatting and taking pictures with their cell phones. There on the sidewalk was a beautiful, huge, black-and-white-mottled bird—big as a wild turkey, but not—with a rectangular head, stern golden eyes, and a yellow beak with a pointed, curved tip. Wildlife in the city!
But as I reached into my coat pocket for my own phone, I noticed something odd about the scene—gray and white feathers, enough to fill a pillow, scattered everywhere. And then something else—a bloody carcass that the bird was in the process of shredding and eating. “It’s rather gruesome,” one of the paparazzi commented, “but my son will be fascinated.”
Yes, indeed. Gruesome and mesmerizing. As I later determined from my bird field guide, the predator was an immature bald eagle feasting on a pigeon in Copley Square.
And no, I did not take a picture. I felt really bad for the pigeon.
Now, for those of you who have no sympathy for pigeons and consider them flying rats or worse, hear me out. I’ve done a lot of reading about pigeons in the past few years, as they figure prominently in the World War I novel that I’ve been writing (now in third draft revisions). They are truly remarkable creatures.
For one thing, pigeons are loyal. They mate for life and live as a couple. (So do bald eagles, apparently, as well as puffins, another of my favorites.)
They come in an astounding array of colors. Even common gray pigeons have stunning iridescent, jewel-toned feathers. Just take a closer look next time you see one in the sun.
They have an extraordinary ability to find their way home, somehow sensing the Earth’s magnetic fields. That’s why pigeons have been deployed since ancient Rome to carry messages.
Which brings me to the fact that the humble pigeon has saved lives. One of the most famous was Cher Ami (Dear Friend), who delivered a vital message that led to the rescue of more than 500 American soldiers during World War I. (And no, he’s not the pigeon in my novel, but certainly an inspiration). This little pigeon survived a bullet to fly 25 miles in a half-hour and deliver his life-saving message. He was awarded the Croix de Guerre by the French for bravery. His stuffed body still resides in the Smithsonian.
The predator eagle was certainly just doing what wildlife do on that Boston sidewalk, eating its prey. And we are all certainly drawn to the unusual, unexpected spectacle, and the exercise of raw power—these days, more than ever, it seems. All too easy to ignore or discount the subtle, the nuanced, the peaceful.
As I reached the train station, I was heartened to see a score of pigeons hanging out in the sunshine by the entrance. An everyday city sight, but so calming, no crowds. Nearby, a young man kneeled with his cellphone, taking their picture.
Evelyn Herwitz blogs weekly about living fully with chronic disease, the inside of baseballs, turtles and frogs, J.S. Bach, the meaning of life and whatever else she happens to be thinking about at livingwithscleroderma.com. Please view Privacy Policy here.
Images: Top, Patrick Brinksma; Bottom, Zac Ong
I find all of your thoughts and reactions in this post very interesting and thought provoking, starting with the ferocious photo of the bird that you chose to head your post.
I think you are probably right that the bird was a young bald eagle. He or she might have been hunting in the city where pigeons are plentiful because, as an inexperienced hunter, she/he was having a harder time finding food in the wild; and might also not be smart enough yet to know that densely populated areas are best avoided. I’m surprised that none of the spectators attempted to grab the bird or scare it off, at least as long as you were there.
As for the pigeon, I do not dislike these birds or consider them “rats” (actually, I don’t dislike rats either, I just don’t want them to live where they can harm humans). I agree that pigeons are pretty and that they have interesting, even admirable qualities. But I also do not begrudge the eagle his or her dinner.
Certainly, it is disturbing to see an animal torn apart. I always find road kill disturbing. But since I eat meat (I know, Evie, that you do not), I also have to confront the reality that animals are slaughtered–torn apart, if you want to put the worst possible construction on it–so that I can eat them. The fact that I eat only kosher meat, which is supposedly prepared with the minimum of suffering for the animal, does not entirely absolve me.
A friend told me today that bald eagles have been sited on the Charles River. I was also glad that none of the passersby tried to attack the eagle, which was just doing what Nature has programmed it to do. What fascinated me, as I thought about it over the weekend, was the magnetism of raw power, in the Animal Kingdom as a reflection of our own human foibles.