By John Painz
I’ve lived in New York City basically my entire adult life, save for a quick stint in Tampa which I don’t want to talk about. For over thirty years I never paid them any real attention. Pigeons, I mean. Every once in a while I would drop some food on the sidewalk for a wayward bird that was simply hunting for something to eat. A chunk off a hotdog bun. A corner off a Cliff bar. Whatever. Beyond that, they were simply another fixture of the city, just like the subway, just like taxis or highrises, traffic lights, Starbucks, and every other thing that is not unique to any large city across the globe.
New York City is home to a significant amount of wildlife. Seagulls, geese, ducks, swans. Over 400 species of birds call our parks, our creeks, streams, ponds, and rivers home…not to mention our buildings. Twice a year millions of migratory birds fly through our city, both coming up north and going back down south. Millions of them.
That first pigeon, though…I walked past the bird and something just woke up in me. I saw him/her sitting on the ground at the entrance of a building, huddled up to the side of a concrete wall, warming him- or herself in the sunlight. Let’s call the pigeon Toby so I don’t have to go back and forth on their potential gender, OK?
I saw Toby on the ground there, said “Huh,” and went across the street like I always did back then. This was around 2017. I’d hit up this restaurant down the block from me on 181st Street, grab some of their terrible coffee, an almond croissant (which were quite good), and try to write. Back then I was a filmmaker and I was trying to get some screenwriting done for a potential project.
But all I could think about was this pigeon. Even though I was inexperienced in wildlife rescue I knew a pigeon huddled on the ground and barely moving was not a good sign.
So I googled “hurt pigeon nyc” or something similar and came across a Yahoo group. I don’t remember what it was called back then, but it’s now called NYCPRC.org, which stands for New York City Pigeon Rescue Central, owned and operated by electronic musical composer extraordinaire Laurie Spiegel.
I joined the group and wrote, “Hey, I’m on 181st and Cabrini Blvd, and there’s a hurt pigeon here. Come and get it!”
Seriously. That’s almost word for word.
Here I was, thinking that vans with an adorable-but-serious Pigeon Rescue logo would pull up, people would get out with matching jumpsuits and they’d grab the pigeon and take poor Toby to an animal hospital and fix them up and all would be right with the world. Maybe a helicopter would fly overhead, you know, monitoring the situation.
As I was waiting for a response, drinking that awful coffee, the pigeon crawled along the wall of the building every few minutes, staying warm in the sunlight that was passing overhead.
After twenty minutes I hit refresh on the group and finally got a reply. Yes!
No. Nope. Not the reply I was expecting at all.
It read: You’re right there, go save it!
That kind of threw me for a loop. I love animals. I always have. I’ve had cats since forever, I donate to animal non-profits. I pet dogs on the street whenever I can. At that point I had never even come close to touching a bird. Not even someone’s pet. The responder told me to put the bird in a box and take it to the Wild Bird Fund (WBF), which is New York City’s only licensed wildlife rehab center. The only one in the entirety of NYC. That right there is a huge goddamn tragedy, but I digress.
So, I left the restaurant, went and found a box, and was able to pick up this particular pigeon with ease. I secured Toby in the box and called an Uber to take me to WBF. Here’s me thinking that a New York City pigeon would be scared of subway noise. Not scared of the constant traffic, loud music, firecrackers, fire trucks, police cars, ambulances and all. Of course not.
Once at the WBF I filled out a form, handed over the box, gave a donation, and felt pretty damn good about myself. I’d done actual good. I mean, I had no idea such a place existed, had no idea that New Yorkers were bringing hurt birds to them all day, every day, 365 days a year, for the last 19 years… and I had no idea how that one day would change my life.
It would just take a while.
I stopped going to that restaurant for bad coffee and croissants and ended up going to Starbucks on the corner of 181st and Fort Washington. I liked the coffee better and, by this point, I couldn’t get any film projects off the ground. In fact, it was around this time that I’d started writing my first novel, Blue, Upstate. I’d get some coffee, maybe some cookies, head home and write.
Fine. I’d always get cookies.
This was about a year after Toby. One of the businesses just west of Starbucks had been shuttered for at least six months. It used to be a nail salon. It was up for rent. There was a sign outside and the agency was called Navi Something Something. Navi is also the name of my friend’s daughter, so that’s what this pigeon’s name ended up being.
In the past I had seen that the front of the awning, where the name of the business was, had holes in it. Inside the base of the awning were a number of plastic tiles that are normally there to let light in from a fluorescent bank. But there was no lighting system inside the awning, just the store’s security gate housing. Because of those torn holes in the awning it had become a perfect place for pigeons to nest.
On this particular day heading up for coffee, I heard the telltale signs of a squeaker. A squeaker is a pigeon that is just north of having been born, has feathers, and has a mass of yellow hairs sticking up all over the place. They can’t fly, and they are completely dependent on their parents for food.
They’re also adorable.
The thing was, that morning I noticed the front of the awning had been patched up with cardboard strips that were duct taped into place. On the top of the awning, two pigeons were pacing back and forth, which was strange.
I looked inside the awning and could hear the baby but couldn’t see her. That’s when I saw that someone had also sealed up two additional tears on both sides of the awning. There was simply no way for the parents to get in to see their baby.
So, I moved one of the plastic awning tiles by pushing up and sliding it off to the side a bit. A simple thing, but completely world changing for a trapped animal.
Immediately, one of the parents flew down to the sidewalk and into the awning.
Huh.
I went about getting my coffee (and cookies, yes, yes), walked back, saw the tile was still moved off to the side, and went home.
This went on for two weeks.
Every morning I went back and the tile was put back into place. So I moved it out of the way. My thinking was, this baby pigeon was going to be able to leave the nest soon. Just keep at it until they do and then it’s no longer an issue.
Every once in a while, as soon as I would move the tile, one of the parents would fly out, having been trapped inside the awning overnight with the baby.
Labor Day weekend came around. I went that Saturday morning, moved the tile and sat there for two hours waiting for the person, whoever they were, to come and put the tile back. Or, you know, God forbid, for the baby bird (now a fledgling) to finally fly out of their nest. I had seen Navi numerous times over the course of those two weeks. She wasn’t stuck in a nest, she was hopping around back and forth all along the security gate housing. The parents were going in and out, too. They were actually forcing other pigeons out of the awning, protecting Navi. It was really something to see.
Saturday, Sunday, Monday… nothing. The tile stayed open and I put two and two together. Long holiday weekend. Maintenance worker for the building.
The next morning I went by early. Much earlier than normal. Got my coffee and cookies and waited to see who would move the tile back and just like that this skinny 20-something guy came over. He wasn’t tall enough to reach the tile so he had to get a leg up on the security gate. He moved the tile back into place and then headed down the block.
Now, I’m not a fan of confrontation at all. I know some people get off on it. I do not. Whenever I have to confront people about something I usually get panicky and nervous because you simply don’t know how the conversation is going to go. Especially in New York City.
Well, I followed this guy down the block and as I went to talk to him he got into a car.
Damn.
I told myself, OK, still, just go talk to him. You have to solve this.
I knocked on his window and he rolled it down and I asked “Can we talk?”
He looked completely put off and said, “I’m making a phone call.”
“I’ll wait.”
He sighed, like real dramatic like. “What do you want to talk about?”
I said, “The baby pigeon.”
“The bird? Yeah, what about it?”
“Well, listen, if you keep them trapped up in the awning they’ll die.”
“So?”
Seriously?
My mouth was open, trying to form words. “Well—”
“If you care about it so much why don’t you move it?”
Huh. Good question.
I’d never interacted with a baby bird before and figured there had to be some laws about moving nests, right? (There are.)
I said, “Well, because I don’t know how.”
“So?” Even more put off.
I could see how the conversation was going to go. The complete lack of empathy was driving me nuts and I simply said OK and walked away. Escalating the situation at that point would have been stupid. The kid didn’t care at all. In fact, in his mind I was the problem. I went home shaking from anger. I was trying to figure out the best course of action.
Option 1, get the baby out of there and burn the building to the grou... no. No. Hey. Come on, man.
The first thing I did was, I went to the police precinct on 183rd and Broadway. There was a cop outside. I explained the situation and was basically met with, “You’re joking, right?” I was like, “Well it is animal cruelty. That’s a crime, right?”
He said, “Call 311.”
Call 311.
Sigh. For those of you who don’t live here in NYC, let me tell you about 311. Telling a New Yorker to call 311 is like saying, “Just pray for it to happen. That’ll work.”
It won’t. Nothing happens. And on the rare occasion that something does happen, it’s because it’s in the city’s interest to fix it, not the public’s.
So I called 311. I talked them through it. I gave them the address and everything. I was even given a case number. I was told the police would look into it.
OK. Great.
Twenty minutes later I received a text saying the case was closed.
Grrr…
I went back home and gave it some thought. Since rescuing Toby I hadn’t been on the Yahoo pigeon rescue group, but I knew there was a place to take birds in need. Maybe the Wild Bird Fund would loan someone out to help me take care of this situation. They must do that kind of thing all the time, right?
The whole trip down on the subway I was a mixture of rage and tears. Over a pigeon. Seriously. This is my life, by the way. Inaction and cruelty drive me crazy. Back then, right now. All the same.
I got there and explained the story to the person who was doing intake (that’s the person who takes birds the public brings to them). She went inside and got a rehab specialist who said, “Look, you should get the baby, place her on the street so the parents can see her, and they’ll take care of the rest.”
Hmm.
The problem was (and is) that 181st between Fort Washington and Cabrini is a busy street. It’s actually nuts how busy it is for such a quiet area. I explained that to him. He said, “OK, then bring her here. Once she’s ready to go, we’ll release her.”
“What about the parents?” I asked. This was already a sad situation and it was turning sadder by the second.
He shrugged. It’s a question I’m sure he’d been asked a thousand times. “Once they see she’s gone, they’ll move on in a few days.”
Sigh. “OK. How the hell do I catch a baby pigeon? Can someone from here help me?”
“We don’t have rescuers, only rehabbers.” The guy handed me a net. “Please bring it back. It’s got sentimental value.”
“Sentimental val—sure. OK.” And I headed back to the subway. I called my girlfriend Karen. “Do we have any empty boxes?”
“No. We have a cat carrier.”
OK, great.
I headed back home on the subway. With a net. I was getting looks from people, that’s for sure.
I got up to 181st. I’m ready to run into this guy again. I’m thinking, Hey, I’ve been working out. I’ll pick you up and throw you into the goddamn stree—
Karen showed up outside the store with the cat carrier and I move one of the tiles and a millisecond later one of the parents that was trapped inside flies out.
Oh boy. This is going to be tough.
I grabbed the net and suddenly, and I mean immediately, a woman came out of the business next door and said, “What are you doing? You can’t move that baby bird! It’s illegal!”
I stopped moving. “I know, but—”
“You can’t. You have no idea what you’re doing, and you’re going to hurt or kill her by moving her.”
I put my hands up. “Whoa, whoa, listen. I’m not with the building.”
“OK…”
“I’ve been watching the pigeon for two weeks, and the management company and I got into a bit of an argument and so I’m here to help get the baby out before she dies.”
“Ohhh. OK. Sorry for jumping down your throat.”
“It’s OK. I just went down to the Wild Bird Fund and—“
Her eyes lit up. “That’s where I work!”
And I stopped.
Are you kidding me? Are you KIDDING ME?
Two weeks. Two weeks I’d been watching that bird. Never saw a single person come near her and the day I have to rescue her, a person who works for the Wild Bird Fund, on the day I visit them, on the day I have a run in with that little sociopath…?
We moved more tiles. We borrowed a ladder from the business next door. I climbed up there and saw the baby. I used the Sentimental Net and I covered the bird. I gently brought Navi along the edge of the security gate housing. I was terrified of hurting her. I finally got her fully into the net and brought her down to the ground. The woman (whose name I didn’t get) carefully removed Navi from the net and put her into the cat carrier. I said thank you for your help and that I will take her down to the Wild Bird Fund along with this guy’s special net.
I called a car. I was broke and unemployed but I was terrified of bringing a baby bird onto the subway. The noise alone…
I brought Navi down to the Wild Bird Fund and they happily accepted her. Said they would make sure she was healthy and taken care of. Told me that they would be able to update me on her progress, and that on Mondays and Fridays they release rehabilitated birds in Central Park.
“OK, great. Oh, and here. Here’s that guy’s Sentimental Net.”
The intake woman looked at me, like, what?
I left feeling really good. A familiar feeling. I walked a few blocks, sat down in some shade and relaxed. A few minutes later a woman sat near me and we started talking. I told her what happened from the beginning. She smiled, asked me if I was Jewish. I said no. She said there's a word to sum up the experience. Bashert. “It was meant to be.”
I’d been struggling to sleep over those two weeks. I’d had a couple of dreams about that bird. One of them included murderous weasels who were put into the awning to kill it. I swear to God, sometimes I feel that my brain is wholly and fully against me.
I watched those parents for a few days after. They paced the awning to get in and I tried to tell them that their baby was OK. Me, standing on the sidewalk, holding a cup of coffee and some cookies, talking to two pigeons twelve feet up. And after a while they did leave the awning.
I got a call a few weeks later letting me know that Navi had been released in the park. Awesome, and my brain started thinking again. Maybe she made her way back up to our neighborhood and reunited with her family. Maybe she’ll find a mate and watch over Central Park with her own babies.
Maybe, maybe.
Since Navi, I’ve rescued in the neighborhood of 200 birds, from the two babies I found in the gutter on 55th and 1st Avenue, to Alphabet, the trapped pigeon at the ABC studios on 67th and Central Park West. And 200 isn’t even close to a record. There are rescuers out there who are tireless in their calling, and they’ve been doing it for years and years and years. The thing is, I don’t consider myself any different from the person who’s only rescued one bird, one dog, one cat. Because that person has done more than 90% of New Yorkers, and I thank them so much for their empathy and caring.
You don’t have to be a professional anything to rescue a hurt animal. Just know that if you find one that is hurt, you are that animal's best chance of surviving and I’m sure, wherever you are, there’s a place just like the Wild Bird Fund who can help the wildlife you find.
I don’t do as much rescuing as I used to. I can’t. My body is a mess. But whenever I leave my apartment to get a cup of coffee, I’m reminded of Toby and Navi. Two pigeons the universe put right in my path.
John Painz rescues animals whenever he can. He's written and directed two feature films and self-published three crime novels. He loves movies and moonlit walks on the-wait, wait, stop. Wrong bio. And his favorite band is Oingo Boingo.