I have a small fire escape and it serves as my garden. This year, I'm expanding and planting tomatoes, peppers, cukes, basil (LOTS), sage, parsley, cilantro, flowers, and some other things I forgot.
Wayne was pulling in pots for me to dig in when he said, "Oh...oh...tail feathers!" I immediately thought there was a dead bird on the fire escape and said, "Get rid of it! Just get rid of it!"
"No..." he said, a bit of awe in his voice. "It's a mother. A mother bird and her nest. A pigeon."
Like any good New Yorker, I know what pigeons really are. They are rats with wings. Rats in the air or on the ground, both gross.
"Wayne, I don't want it in our teeny garden. I'm afraid it's going to fly in, and it's also going to crap on everyone's heads as they enter and leave the building."
Wayne shook his head. "You're right."
I didn't want to kill the egg; I just wanted it someplace else. Wayne went out with a broom to try to scare the bird away. The pigeon tried to attack the broom.
We have a stupid pigeon nesting on our fire escape.
Sometimes, urban wildlife sucks.