Photos (and most of the work) by Sophia.
Author: Neil Kramer (Page 111 of 187)
Thanks for reading the baby pigeon saga. It really happened! Although we should probably do something about the problem of his parents, who are creating havoc with our cable —
The Pigeon on the Patio – Part 1
The Pigeon on the Patio – Part 2Â
Whether the little bird had a heart attack or not, was a moot point. It was dead. I had to remove it from our patio.Â
The atmosphere on our patio had completely changed. Just a few moments ago, the flowers were a sign of beauty and life. Now the patio made me think of a cemetery with wreaths. I got the shoe box ready and reached for the dead pigeon. This would be his final trip. The poor creature was gone before he even had a chance to fly. If only he once had the joy of flying with the wind, looking down at the world where the humans would appear small to him. Small, but close enough to crap on their heads.Â
I want to fly like a pigeon
To the sea
Fly like an pigeon
Let my spirit carry me
I want to fly like a pigeon
Till I’m free
Time seemed to stop as I gently grasped the pigeon with my left hand, when suddenly, there was a crazy movement, prying my hands open. The dead pigeon screamed, chirping louder than ever.Â
He wasn’t dead, only faking it! What a clever sun-of-a-pigeon!
“He’s alive. The mother****er is alive!” I yelled to Sophia, as if I had just seen a miracle akin to Jesus being resurrected.
I tried to grab it again, shaking like a leaf (me, not the pigeon). I totally missed the bird, because this time the pigeon didn’t just retreat. He careened right past me and across the patio, weaving his way in and out through the obstacle course of pots and patio chairs. It was if the bird had never walked before, but nature or God and adrenaline had finally given him this amazing ability to be the fastest pigeon that ever existed.
“Get him” yelled Sophia. “Get him!”
I ran after the bird, but he kept on zigging and zagging out of the way, like LaDainian Tomlinson of the San Diego Chargers.Â
“He’s under the patio table,” said Sophia.
I took the shoebox and tried to block his way, and then I went to scoop him up, like a ball in a glove.  The little pigeon ran away again, but this time — horror of horrors — he ran straight INTO OUR LIVING ROOM!
“You forgot to close the patio door, you idiot!” screamed Sophia. “We now have a f***ing  pigeon inside our house!”
Now, in the past, I’ve heard Sophia use some “salty” language, but nothing compares to what she said to me when she saw this dirty pigeon running under our couch. Even Samuel L. Jackson would blush.
“Neil, get that ******** pigeon the **** out of the ******** living room***** right the **** now! I don’t care what the **** you need to do! Do it!”
And then she added some long-winded curses in Russian, Hebrew, and Arabic that I couldn’t understand, which was probably for the best.
I chased the pigeon under the coffee table and finally trapped it behind the entertainment center. He had nowhere to turn. I was on one side, the cabinet on the other, an extension cord blocking him from a quick getaway.  I was shaking so much that I leaned against the entertainment center for support, perhaps too strongly, until Sophia screamed out, “Be careful! The big screen TV is going to topple over and kill both of you!”
The pigeon and I were both crazed by this point — man vs. beast, both breathing as heavily as we could. But as it says in Genesis, man shall be ruler over beast. I also knew that Sophia would kill me if I left a pigeon walking around the living room. I finally grabbed the sucker and placed him in the shoebox, quickly covering the box. I could feel the pigeon bouncing up and down, but I held it down with all my might.
“Open up the ****** front door!” I screamed to Sophia. “Open it NOW!”
Sophia threw open the front door and I ran outside without my shoes, carrying the shoebox, protecting the pigeon like it was the most precious cargo, bringing it across the street and out of any danger.Â
Across the street from our house is a tree-lined area which is shady and inaccessible from the main street. I propped the shoe box near a branch that was both low enough to prevent the bird from falling and hurting himself, but high enough to keep him out of reach of the cat. The pigeon jumped out of the box, onto the branch, and scrambled away until I couldn’t see him anymore. He was on his own now. I had the proud but sad feeling that a father must have when he sends his son away to college.
I returned home, my heart still racing. Sophia was glad that the whole experience was over. She was ready to return to the patio to work on the flowers. But I WASN’T ready yet.
“That’s it. I’m done for the day.” I said, without hesitation. “I’m sitting outside in the front and having a beer.”
“Did you just say you are having a beer?”
I opened the fridge and took out a bottle of Stella Artois. It had been sitting there for months because Sophia couldn’t drink during her surgeries, and I never drink beer. I don’t even like beer.Â
Today, I felt like having a beer. Beer feels manly. I felt manly.
I sat outside on this white plastic chair that we keep near the front door and enjoyed my manly beer.Â
Will the bird survive? Who knows. I can’t run his life, anymore than my father could run mine.  Later that night, I would finally receive a call back from some woman at the Los Angeles Animal Control.  She told me that the bird probably fell out of the nest and if so, he was in danger of being eaten by a cat. She also said that the mother pigeon must have put him in that bushy corner for protection until he can fly, and was feeding him there.
I gasped.Â
“My god! I separated a child from his mother? I broke the sacred bond! How will she ever find him?”
“The mother will always find him,” she said. “She will recognize the chirping. You did good.”
I did good.  I felt heroic.  Most importantly, I knew my father was impressed. I could hear him say, “This is the best Father’s Day gift I ever received.”
The next day, the pigeons thanked me by taking a crap on my car. I think my father would find that funny.Â
Happy Father’s Day and Happy Birthday, Dad.  Be of good cheer.
(The Pigeon on the Patio - Part 1)Â
My first step after deciding to save the baby pigeon from the clutches of the cat was to go upstairs and log onto Yahoo Messenger, hoping that some blogger was online who might have some insights on what to do next. Of course, as usual, no one was online when I needed someone. I only get “buzzed” by an “online friend” when I’m about to do some important work or I’m in the middle of having virtual sex on Second Life.
My mind raced, looking for a solution. I decided to call Petco, remembering that there was a store on Pacific Coast Highway, right next to the overpriced “gourmet” Mexican cafe.
“Petco!,” answered the whiny voice of what I imagined to be a bored female sophomore of El Camino Community College, stuck with an awful summer job.
“Hi there,” I said. “Is there anyone in the store who specializes in birds?”
“She’s on vacation.”
“Maybe you can you help me.”
“I’ll try.”
“Well… this might sound like an odd question, but I live near your store and there’s a baby pigeon on my patio that may be injured or can’t fly, and I have no idea what I should do…”
“And how CAN I help you?”
“I thought you might be able to tell me what to do or who I should call for help.”
“Uh, I don’t know. Did you buy the bird at Petco?”
“It’s a pigeon.”
“So, you didn’t buy the bird at Petco?”
“It’s a pigeon. You know, like the pigeons that fly around all over the place… all over the world”
“So maybe it will just fly away.”
“I don’t think it can fly. That’s the problem.”
“Do you know how to use the computer?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you can do a search on Google for this type of bird. Do you know how to do that?”
“Yes, that’s how I found you. Would you know if I should feed it?”
“We do sell bird seed. Different birds eat different bird seed. What type of bird do you have?”
“It’s a PIGEON!”
“We carry parakeet food. But I don’t see any pigeon seeds listed on the computer.”
Jesus. Petco — the “Best Buy” of the pet world.
“OK, THANK YOU,” I said, having just wasted precious moments of my life with a woman who will, no doubt, one day  end up doing something important, like running Paramount Pictures.
I went back downstairs and told Sophia about my decision:Â we needed to feed it, in case it was starving.
“Feed it what?” she asked.
I went into the kitchen, and returned with a box of Cheerios. I handed her the box and asked her to feed him for me.Â
“Why me?”  asked Sophia.
“Babies like to be fed by their “mother.” I said.Â
I made this up. I just didn’t want to do it.  Despite the bird’s tiny size, I was afraid of going near it, thinking it might bite me and give me rabies. And, besides, this bird was particularly ugly.
Sophia threw some Cheerios in the vicinity of the bird. We waited and watched, but the pigeon didn’t budge.
“Let’s move away and not watch him.” I said. “Maybe he doesn’t like to eat while people watch.”
I’m not sure why I came up with that theory. After a certain age, you come up with bits of information in your brain, some factual and some nonsense.  I vaguely remembered reading that dogs didn’t like to go to the bathroom while people stared, because it made them insecure. I could understand this, because I also hated it when I was on the toilet and Sophia came in to grab a hairbrush.  Maybe birds only eat when they are alone, like the anorexic models in Brentwood.
We walked away and turned our backs to the bird, letting him enjoy his Cheerios in peace. We waited a bit, then returned to see what happened. The pigeon hadn’t touched the Cheerios. He retreated even further into the corner, as if he was deathly afraid of the product’s “wholesome oat goodness.”
“I’ll be back,” I told Sophia, saying it with the inflection of a Jewish Terminator.
“Where are you going NOW?” she asked.
“I’m getting HIM some bird seed.”
I went to the supermarket, where I was surprised to learn that they actually HAD bird seed..  I chose the seeds that looked the smallest, hoping that these would be the easiest for the tiny bird to eat, the equivalent of giving Gerber baby food to an infant.
 I returned with the seeds and handed the bag to Sophia.
“Why don’t you do it?” she asked.
‘You’re the mother.” I said, trying to manipulate her by appealing to her maternal instincts.
Sophia spread some seeds near the bird. We looked away and waited. Nothing. The bird didn’t move an inch.
“Well, we tried,” said Sophia. “We should get back to work. Maybe someone will give us an answer soon.”Â
She was eager to finish the planting so we could set up our new fountain. She was excited about hearing the calming water as it dribbled down the three “levels” of fake stone.
Maybe Sophia was right.Â
“We tried,” I told myself. “We did our best. If the bird doesn’t want to eat, its his own fault.  I don’t know how to protect the bird from the cat. Nature is dangerous. I’m not bringing the pigeon inside to live with us. I don’t even want to touch it.  It’s a stupid, ugly pigeon. I’m not sticking my neck out and get rabies just for a dumb bird.”
I was about to give up completely when I felt the presence of my father — and I felt ashamed of myself for wanting to give up so easily.
“I’m going to call Los Angeles Animal Control,” I told Sophia. “Maybe they’ll come over and take him away.”
“Isn’t Animal Control there for taking away crazy pitbulls?”- Â said Sophia.
Since it was Father’s Day, no one answered the phone at animal control. There was only a long recorded message asking me to leave my phone number, and that “someone would get back to me.”
“…if this is about an injured or abandoned bird, please press #5.”
I pressed #5 and listened to further instructions on what to do. Apparently, I needed to take care of the situation myself. To prevent the bird from being in harm’s way, I needed to put him into a box, then move him to a safe location, perhaps high on a tree branch.
I told Sophia the details, then took a shoe box from her closet. I handed it to Sophia.
“You need to get him into the box…” I said to her.Â
Sophia glared at me. She was done doing my dirty work.
“If you really want to deal with this bird, YOU DO IT. Stop being such a scaredy cat, no pun intended.”
She knew me well. I was scared of the bird.Â
I slowly went over to the corner of the patio and got down on my knees. The bird was pretty far back, so the only way to reach him was to stick my hand around some overgrown tree roots, and then all the way in to take hold of him.Â
And there was NO WAY I was doing this.Â
 I took another approach. I decided to reason with the baby pigeon.
“Come into the box, little bird. It’s for your own safety. Come here. Tweet tweet. I won’t hurt you. Tweet tweet tweet!”
The pigeon stubbornly ignored me. Sophia laughed, but not a fun laugh. A mocking laugh.
This made my blood boil.  Now I needed to prove myself to the woman I once married. I leaned forward, hoping to get more leverage, moving closer to the bird, until I saw those beady eyes peering at me from out of the darkness, and fear stabbed me in right in the stomach. I couldn’t do it. The anxiety was overwhelming. Â
The neighbors next door were having an afternoon BBQ party. I thought about going over to their house and asking someone for help. Surely, one of the guests MUST have some experience with birds.  Then I looked over at Sophia. Would she ever be able to look at me like a man again if I ran crying to the neighbors’ house?
I took several deep breaths, trying to wipe my mind of all fear, hypnotizing myself into emptiness, and forcing myself to just GO FOR IT.
After placing the empty shoebox at my side, I reached behind the tree and into the heart of darkness. My finger grazed a bit of feather, and then my hand began to surround the pigeon’s tiny body. I could feel the bird’s heat and the vibration of his life energy. Just as I was about to grip him, there was a sudden jolt and the pigeon SCREECHED loudly, with a might and power that even surprised the bird himself, as he flapped his useless wings and twirled like a Waring blender. I jumped up, shrieking in unison. I released the bird, then pulled my hand back to protect myself, banging the back of my hand against the wall. The pigeon jumped up and down, as if he was having an epileptic fit, banging his wings into the branches of the tree. It then slid back into the corner, in a final kamikaze move… and then there was SILENCE. Absolutely NO SOUND, other than my own rapid breathing. I slowly pushed my finger in, touched the front of the little bird, but there was no movement. He was like a solid rock… lifeless.
“I think I just killed the pigeon!” I yelled at Sophia. “I scared the hell out of him. I killed him!”
What could be worse? I wanted to save the bird for my father. Instead, he died in the same way my father did – by having a heart attack!
Â
My father loved the back patio we have in Redondo Beach. Whenever he would visit, the first thing he would do was to go outside and sit on the patio. He would carry his transistor radio, turned to the classical music station, and read the “Calendar” section of the LA Times to see “what theater was in town.”  After my father passed away, our patio hit on hard times. It began to take on the look of some abandoned exterior from a gothic novel set in Savannah. Even when our interior was spotless, the patio was always in disarray, with spider webs on our unused flower pots. We bought a grill, but never used it. Our umbrella turned black from the foggy beach air.  Our ficus trees died.  The only life to ever be found on our patio was this annoying grey cat, a neighborhood scavenger, who one night at 3AM, knocked over our last two remaining ceramic planters, shattering them and waking up half the neighborhood.
After Sophia heard that she didn’t need any more surgery, she decided to take up a life-affirming hobby — fixing up the patio. Sophia loves flowers – cut flowers, plants, potted flowers. She was so over the moon when some of you sent her flowers. She said that having beatiful flowers to look at will bring her joy and help her heal. So we cleaned up all the leaves and hosed down the walls. We spent several hundred dollars at Home Depot, buying pots, flowers, soil, and Miracle Gro. The nice thing about Home Depot is that the “garden guy” actually knows about his subject, which is different from the experience you get from the imbeciles at electronics stores like Best Buy. At Home Depot, Sophia and I learned about perennials and annuals, and which flowers do better in the sun and in the shade.Â
As we toiled on the patio, re-potting our new flowers, my image of gardening forever changed. I used to visualize it as a hobby for a retired woman. Now, I see it as workout more draining than using the elliptical trainer at 24 Hour Fitness.   Just carrying those heavy pots and bags of soil are enough to build your biceps.  No wonder why men who “work in the field” are so muscular. Gardening is hot, sweaty, and dirty work, completely different than my typical day of sitting at my computer, drinking diet Snapple with my pinkie raised. One regret: I wish I had never read the side of the soil bag: “contains worm crap, bat droppings, and chicken manure.” Ugh. From now on I double-wash all my fruits and vegetables, including the packages which say “pre-washed.”Â
As the sweat soaked my Izod polo shirt, which apparently is a bad sartorial choice for gardening, I thought of my father, and how much he loved this patio. It was also Father’s Day. I remembered how my father always got short-changed on Father’s Day because June 19th was also his birthday. The two “holidays” got merged into one, and he usually got one gift.
Even though he died almost two years ago, I don’t think the information has settled in… yet.  I don’t walk around “missing him,” as much as I thought I would, mostly because I act as if he’s still around.  By saying he’s “still around,” I don’t mean he’s “still with us” in a spiritual way. I mean that he was such a “character,” that I still can vividly hear and see him in my mind’s eye. Sophia, my mother, and I still talk about him all the time, even making fun of his quirks, as if he’s sitting in the next room.
“I just paid eleven dollars for a movie,” I recently told my mother. “Imagine what Dad would say!” And we would laugh, because we knew EXACTLY what he would say.
I’m sure in several years from now, when his image and voice become less distinct, I’ll “miss him” more in the traditional sense. For now, it still feels like he’s around.Â
Sophia and I worked on the patio for several hours during Father’s Day. As we were re-potting the foxgloves, Sophia and I noticed a tiny black bird, hiding behind the tree in the far corner of the patio.  He crouched in the darkness, hardly moving. Every few minutes he let out a little faint chirp and rustled some leaves. We wondered whether it was hurt, unable to fly, or just abandoned by his mother. We discussed at length whether it was a hated crow or a hated pigeon, and decided it had to be a pigeon.
We continued on with our gardening, giving very little thought to the bird. Neither of us are animal people. Neither of us ever owned a pet. We figured that it was safe enough for the bird while we were on the patio.  As for later, that’s HIS problem. After dark, the nasty neighborhood cat would come out, looking for food. We assumed that if the bird was injured, he would eventually be eaten.Â
At this point, you might think us as uncaring people, but we had plenty of reasons to feel unsympathetic towards pigeons. Several weeks ago, pigeons created a nest on our roof.  Every morning at 4:00 AM, these ugly pigeons were squarking outside our bedroom window, waking us up, even when Sophia needed her rest after the surgeries. Then, to make things worse, they would take a crap on our cars, and on what was left of our patio. We assumed that this tiny bird was the spawn of these nasty intruders. He was as ugly as his mother, with the same beady, unfriendly eyes.
While Sophia and I didn’t care about this little, lonely pigeon, I knew someone who would care — my father.  He would be extremely upset about this scared bird.  My father was the type of guy who got tears in his eyes when he would see homeless women (and only women) begging on the street. Before you start oohing and aahing over his kind heart, I should make it clear that my father wouldn’t actually DO anything for this poor pigeon if he was around, but he would have certainly felt the bird’s pain.
I am my father’s son, so I naturally felt bad for the little bird. But what could I do? And so what if the cat eats the bird. That’s the natural order of things. For a while, I was able to ignore the faint chirping of the baby pigeon, and the way it shook with fear, hiding in the corner of our patio, knowing that his end was near. But soon, I realized that I’m not just my father’s son. I’m my own man. And I’m stronger than he was. I could go one step better than he ever could. I put down my package of soil, wiping my dirty hands on my Izod shirt.
“I need to stop gardening for a while,” I told Sophia.Â
“Already? But we have so much to do!”
Yes. It was time to make my father proud.
“I’m going to save this baby pigeon from the cat!”
After Sophia’s second surgery, there was still some DCIS seen in the tissue taken from her breast. Her doctors were undecided on what to do next. The pathology report seemed to indicate that Sophia should either have a third surgery or radiation. Sophia’s oncologist wasn’t sure about the prognosis. Sophia’s oncologist and surgeon went to a special weekly meeting of Cedars Sinai pathologists, and other cancer specialists, where they apparently discuss borderline and difficult cases, like something they might do on “House.”
We waited and waited. This morning we got their decision —
NO surgery and NO radiation.
The DCIS is of low invasive-ness, and there doesn’t seem to be any immediate danger.
NO surgery and NO radiation.
Here Comes the Sun!
…well, hopefully. That’s no surgery and no radiation…Â for now.
The doctors still want Sophia to take a BRCA gene test. The BRCA gene test does NOT test for cancer, but rather for a cancer gene. Having the gene tremendously raises your chances of having breast cancer and some other cancers in the future. Sophia does not have a family history of any cancer, but she has three of the other indicators:
1) Breast cancer before the age of 50
2) Being of Eastern European Jewish descent
3) Getting cancer again, especially a different type
As of now, we’re not even sure of the next step.  When the gene is present — the recommendation is to have a double mastectomy. A lot of women who never had cancer, but find that they carry the BRCA gene, have a double mastectomy and even a hysterectomy, just as a preventative measure. Many chose to not even take the test because they don’t want to do anything based on a strong “possibility,” and they don’t want to be worried for the rest of their life about breast cancer if the gene is found.
But let’s take it one day at a time. For now, it is good news.
NO more surgery and NO radiation!
Can you feel the relief coming off my words? I mulled over the next sentence for several minutes, wondering if it is true:
The last month or so has been the worst of my life.
That’s a pretty strong statement. Surely, there must have been a worse month. How about when I was studying for finals? Breaking up with a girlfriend? The death of a family member? No, even the passing of my father was more sad than stressful.
I cannot remember a time as stressful. I think my hair turned grey overnight. All the uncertainty was awful. Yes, I did sleep on the floor next to Sophia, for a night and a half. I did care for her. But I was frequently a shitty and resentful caretaker.
“Why can’t Sophia be calmer about things?” I would ask myself.
She cried too much. She was always in pain. She is still in pain.
“How am I supposed to accomplish anything with her acting like this… always being in pain?!” I said to myself, self-pitying. “When my mother had surgery once, she came home that night and made dinner!”
Sophia had trouble adjusting to one of her new medications. It made her so hyper, she couldn’t sleep for days. Is it my imagination, or do some medications just make you sick in new ways, so you have to take a second medication to cure your new ailments?
I’ve been depressed for weeks, the only joy coming from the sweet sounds of ABBA. I felt upset about Sophia. I felt upset about myself. I felt guilty for being upset about myself when I was supposed to be upset about Sophia. I avoided talking to friends in New York, or to my mother. A few nights ago, Sophia and I had a nasty fight, calling each other names. I don’t even remember the cause of it. It was terrible. I was pissed, and then I felt like a monster for being pissed at someone in pain.
I found it funny that some bloggers wrote to me, saying that illness can bring a couple closer together. I’d like to take exception to that rule. Laughter. Sex. Pizza. Vacation. Those bring couples together. Health issues do NOT bring people closer together. Maybe health issues can help you appreciate each other more, but if I had a choice, I’d rather go to Disneyland.
When I was growing up, my Pollyannish mother always used this cliche, “If you have your health, you have EVERYTHING.” It used to bug the shit out of me when she said this, because it seemed like such a “loser” attitude. “Well, duh!” I thought. “But what about having a lot of money, a good job, and a hot wife? Is that chopped liver?”
Well, maybe she’s smarter than I thought. That’s why she got the job as a mother.
This morning, Sophia called me from the bedroom. From the sound of her voice, I assumed she was pissed at something. Probably me.
“What?! What do you want?” I yelled.
“Come here.”
I reluctantly dragged myself over to her. I was surprised to see her looking happy.
“Jump up and down,” she said.
“What for?” I protested.
“Just do it.”
I jumped up and down.
“Dr. Karlan just called. No surgery. No radiation.”
I jumped up and down again. Finally, some good news.
Onward.
Is it my imagination or are the”food bloggers” very sexy? Maybe it has something to do with the sensuality of food.  Food and wine are definitely connected to sex. What man hasn’t dreamed of taking Nigella Lawson or Rachel Ray on the oven while she’s just wearing an apron and high heels? Or maybe it is the fact that these cooks use all sorts of exotic ingredients in their dishes  My mother’s “secret ingredient” in her one good dish, brisket — was ketchup.
Two weeks ago, I asked for some simple recipes for a man to cook, and I received so many wonderful items in my email. Thank you.  Some of the recipes were too complicated for my skill level at the moment, but I appreciate the thought. A few of the dishes sounded so delicious, that I decided to pass the information on to others more worthy of making the delicacy, especially one particularly beautiful blogger. I’ll be honest, I hoped to win some brownie points with this glamorous woman, praying that she’d flirt with me, or at least make me some biscuits.
However, dear readers, make note of this important information, in case you ever decide to use Microsoft Word.  While this popular software application has many fine points, the spell checker does NOT catch all  errors, including when you want to say “add fines “herbes,”” but mistakenly re-type it as “add fines “herpes.””
Oh yeah, she WANTS me now!
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