FFfPP — The Pigeon Problem

“I’ve tried everything to keep those damn pigeons from landing on this wall and dropping their dirty, nasty poops all over the place for me to clean up,” Julian complained, “but nothing seems to work.”

“Did you try poison?” Eddie asked.

“Yeah, but the authorities made me stop because they were worried that people, especially kids, might accidentally ingest some.”

“What about traps?”

“No, they said I couldn’t put traps on the wall because they might injure a passerby.”

“What about putting an electrified mesh on top of the wall? That way, you’ll zap those airborne rats when they land.”

“I thought of that,” Julian said, “but the risk of people getting shocked ruled that out.”

“I know, I’ll hide in the bushes and shoot them with my shotgun when they land. That’ll teach ‘em.”

“God no,” Julian said. “You can’t go around taking pot shots at birds. What if you accidentally shot someone? But I do have an idea, Eddie.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”

“Didn’t you say that you recently got laid off and that you’re looking for work?”

“Well, yeah, but….”

“I’ll give you a sponge and a bucket and twenty bucks a day to come by first thing each morning and scrub the wall clean.

“Deal,” Eddie said.

Written for Roger Shipp’s Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner. Photo credit: Pixabay.

11 thoughts on “FFfPP — The Pigeon Problem

  1. cagedunn May 2, 2021 / 4:16 pm

    Or get a peregrine falcon … sort of works in Melbourne.
    Sorry about losing the guy his new job, though.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. jilldennison May 2, 2021 / 11:19 pm

    I love the solution!!! As you know by now, I am a critter-lover and would rather die myself than to harm a bird or other animal, so this is perfect!!!!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Marleen August 2, 2021 / 7:39 pm

    I was reminiscing, a few days ago, about neighbors in a neighborhood in which I lived… before my parents and I moved to be near the private educational complex that would later be my high school and to enjoy a property adjacent to a golf course. The parents (and, perhaps, the oldest child) in the small residence catty corner to my first house had moved directly from Hungary during a communist occupation. The sons, but not the daughter, attended a different sort of private high school. The mother kept pigeons in cages off the back porch. She cooked them, I recalled. “Squab,” said one of the people to whom I was telling the story. “Are you serious?” I asked.


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