The Story of Clem

As you may have guessed after reading the prior post, I like to name the critters that visit us.  Usually, I only name them if they distinguish themselves in some manner or other.  This was the case with Clem.

One sunny day last fall, I found a rock dove (a.k.a. pigeon) in our front courtyard.  It couldn't fly.  The reason became clear after I took a good look at it.  The shoulder area of one of its wings was bleeding slightly from a puncture wound.  The injury did not look life threatening, but it obviously prevented the bird from flying.  I knew right away what happened.  

We have a couple resident Cooper's Hawks--elegant, medium-sized accipiters with slender bodies and a long tail.  They like to take feeder birds and are quite accomplished fliers.  One of the Cooper's, however, is a juvenile that hasn't quite mastered the art of predation.  I had found two pigeons with wounds similar to the one in the front courtyard.  One died only minutes after I found it.  The other took cover in nearby cactus, never to be seen by me again.  My front courtyard visitor was yet another victim of the teen aged Cooper's inexperience.

One of our frequent Cooper's hawk visitors perches
on our back courtyard view fence..

Many people don't like pigeons.  They are one of the most maligned and detested of urban birds, often called "rats on wings."   I agree that pigeons are messy, but so are people.   I did some reading on pigeons and was surprised to learn that these birds have some amazing attributes and history.  For example, in December 2011, researchers in New Zealand discovered that pigeons scored as well on many math tests as monkeys.  They not only could count, but they grasped abstract numerical rules.  The researchers are now calling pigeons "the Einsteins" of the bird world.  Pigeons have excellent vision and can fly as fast as 60 mph, with the ability to cover 600 miles in a single day.  They appear to resonate with the earth's magnetic field, giving them the ability to "home."  Some people breed them for homing and racing competitions.   They are devoted parents, with both the male and female caring for chicks (called squab).  In cities, they are the flying street cleaners, eating lots of human food waste.  They are extremely adaptable, able to live virtually anywhere, including the Sonoran Desert.  They have also saved human lives.  In one case during World War I, a pigeon named Cher Ami was the last hope of New York's 77th Division of the Army.  The battalion was cut off from Allied Forces in France and surrounded by the enemy.  The group was also beginning to take on friendly fire.  Pigeons were sent out to carry messages to the Allies about the location and state of the battalion.  All of the pigeons were shot down.  The last message carrier was Cher Ami.  Cher Ami was also shot down but miraculously took flight again.  His leg was shot off, and a bullet hit his breast, but he kept flying and reached the Allied Forces, saving the lives of many men.   After the war, Cher Ami and about 40 other pigeons were sent back to the United States where they were honored for their brave service.

I knew that I would have to intervene to help my wounded pigeon.  I brought in a bowl of seed, some grit, and water.  I made sure that the front courtyard gate was closed so that the pigeon wouldn't wander into the desert, sure to become dinner for an owl, hawk, or coyote.  I named the bird Clem.  Days passed and I noticed that Clem kept attempting to fly.  Every day, Clem seemed to get stronger and stronger, lifting herself higher and higher off the ground.  Then one day, after about two weeks, Clem was gone.  Her wing had healed and she'd once again joined her flock.

During the time I spent with Clem, I grew to appreciate just what an intelligent and engaging bird she was.  She learned her name quickly, and would come to me when I called, although she did keep a distance between us.  Sometimes, she looked lonely.  I would sit outside with her and she'd watch me until her head tucked into her wing and her eyelids slipped over those sharp peepers.  She'd fall asleep with me sitting only inches from her.  She would also stomp.  If she wanted me to move, she would march up to me, her feet actually stomping.  She'd walk around me in circles until I moved.  She wanted her place.  She DID make a mess; it was hard to believe that such a small creature could manufacture so much waste.  I would dutifully hose down the front porch, with Clem at the edges of the water runoff, only to claim her favorite roosting spot again once I was done. 

Clem

I now see Clem regularly at our back courtyard feeders.  She has a white mark on her shoulder that distinguishes her from her companions.  She also has a boyfriend, who pirouettes before her, thrusting out his chest and throat, uttering a kind of COO-oo-oo-OO I find soothing.  She still seems to know her name.  When I venture out into the back courtyard while she's feeding, I'll call to her.  All of her friends will explode in flight, but she will remain, cocking her head at me. 

I wish Clem well.  She beat the odds against her in the harsh desert world.  She also taught me something.  If not for Clem, I would have never read about pigeons and learned what interesting birds they are, and that they have been a friend to man.

Clem, left, feeds with her mate, front right, and another member of her flock.