Call Him Pigeon Slayer

I have a severe pigeon problem. Ms. Green, my neighbor down the street, feeds them, and they used to roost in the storage area in my car port. They became entrenched in there, and made a huge mess, so several years ago, I had someone come and clean that space out and install mesh to keep them out of the area.

None of the four cats that have lived here are bird killers. Well, Miss Camille was, but she kept her kill skills to small birds. The dogs--well, that's another story. Mr. Big is an expert bird killer, and one time, while on a walk and harnessed on a 6-ft lead, quietly snapped his head up and snatched a bird right out of the air as it flew overhead and in front of us. Dead on the spot. He's killed mockingbirds, morning doves, even a Cooper's hawk. Yes, a hawk. Most of them he's eaten. Not the hawk.

Yesterday, at the ripe old age of 11.5 years, when most dogs are lounging around, not moving much because their creaky old joints are sore (and his no doubt were, as he had a grand time running around the dog park yesterday, including chasing a Young Turk dog faster than I've ever seen him run--ever), and at 104 degrees Farenheit, lying so still you're not even sure they're alive--well, yesterday, he killed a pigeon. Didn't eat it.

This morning he kiled a second pigeon.

You can teach an old dog new tricks.

I am hoping word gets out on the Pigeon Telegraph Line to leave this house alone. I have strings of discarded CDs tucked up under my eaves to try and prevent them from roosting on the inch-wide ledge up there, and they still do. They ignore the CDs and scooch in there, and then leave a mess all over my front yard and walkway. We love birds here in the Nest, but we hate pigeons. 

Now, is this the face of a pigeon serial killer?