My living room opens a window of opportunity for urban wingshooting.
I spend the large part
of my days sitting at the dining room table, working on my computer.
For a retired guy like me, “working” could be anything from
playing Spider Solitaire to watching baseball to cruising the Web to
writing a blog post that maybe 18 people might read. Our spacious
dining/living room is very well lit, thanks to a wall-to-wall,
six-sliding-panel window that measures 7 by 20 feet.
My apartment is on the
ninth floor, and the building across the street has only seven
stories, which means I don't gaze out my window and look directly
into somebody's den. Instead, I can observe the abundant bird life
found in Copacabana. Scissortail hummingbirds, bananaquits and blue
tanagers come to sip nectar from the feeder at our window, kiskadees
shriek from rooftop antennas, and frigate birds spiral upward on
thermals before gliding out to the Cagarras Islands.
And them freakin
pigeons... sky carp... rats with wings... They're everywhere! Flying
past my apartment like ornery pilots buzzing the tower, swarming
around patrons' feet at the sidewalk restaurants, puffing their
chests and cooing while dancing in circles on window ledges, and
doing whatever else them freakin pigeons spend their days doing—all
of which only serves to cheese me off.
Every time I notice a
plump pigbird plop down on a perch, I think, “Dang! The Squirrel
Eraser would love this target-rich environment.”
But my beloved Squirrel
Eraser (a Marlin .17 HMR fitted with an Alpen 6-24x50 scope that
drills targets out to 125 yards) is in the gun safe at a friend's
hunting camp in South Carolina. Besides, no matter how carefully I
chose my backdrops, the residents and police wouldn't take kindly to
some nut blazing away with a rimfire rifle in a neighborhood where
the population density is measured in people per square meter.
I had to find a way to
show them freakin pigeons that I would no longer put up with their
cheese-me-off antics. I also had to find a partner in crime because
ALS has rendered my arms and legs nearly useless. My aide Luiz was
the perfect candidate for the henchman job. Like me, he harbors no
love for them freakin pigeons; when we're out, Luiz often steers my
wheelchair toward birds on the sidewalk and accelerates.
So I bought a
slingshot. Nothing fancy, just a handmade El Cheapo I saw in a crafts
market. A few days later, while grocery shopping with Luiz, I asked
him to buy peanuts.
“Peanuts?” he
asked, knowing I have difficulty chewing them.
“We're gonna have a
party,” I answered.
When we got home, I
asked Luiz to open the peanuts and get the slingshot. He followed my
gaze out the window and needed no further encouragement. A solitary
pigeon loafed on the roof across the street. Estimated range: 35
yards.
Luiz nonchalantly slid
open the window and pretended to check the weather. He was really
guaging windage and looking around to make sure the coast was clear.
“I feel like a sniper,” he said. “I don't want to give away my
position.”
We had to keep our
activities discreet. The building across the street is lower than
ours, but it's flanked by taller ones. We sometimes see neighbors at
their windows having a smoke; surely somebody would notice a guy
leaning out with a slingshot at full draw. It would only take one
grouch with no sense of humor to blow the whistle and force us to
abort the mission.
Standing slightly back from the window for better concealment from prying eyes, Luiz
loaded up and took aim.
THWAP
Slingshots don't emit a
muzzle flash, but they make a hell of a racket upon discharge. The
pigeon didn't even blink. It smirked at us.
“Wide to the right,”
Luiz said, keeping his eye on the target as he reloaded.
THWAP
“Low and away.”
THWAP
“To the right again.”
THWAP
“Over his head.”
THWAP
The startled bird leapt
up, flew several feet, and settled on the roof again.
“That one hit right
beside him,” Luiz reported.
After four more shots,
Luiz came close again. Our quarry flapped away to safety.
Ha! We showed that
freakin pigeon!
Twenty minutes later, a
dozen birds milled about on the rooftop.
“What are they
doing?” I asked.
Luiz glanced over.
“Eating peanuts.”
CHOICE OF AMMUNITION
We knew coming into
this assignment that peanuts would be lousy projectiles. Their
aerodynamics, or lack thereof, cause them to veer at freaky angles,
making each shot's trajectory impossible to predict. (I know, I know:
What can you expect from a legume that ripens underground?)
Structural
integrity/cohesiveness is another issue. Luiz watched a few peanuts,
unable to withstand the G-force of a high-speed launch, burst into
fragments as soon as they left the slingshot.
And even when they do
hold together, peanuts don't have sufficient density to carry any
significant energy downrange. In other words, they're too light to
pack any kind of a wallop.
So why did I choose
peanuts?
First of all, it is not
our intent to kill pigeons, only harass them.
Flinging empty rum
bottles at birds would probably upset the neighbors.
Biodegradable
projectiles quickly vanish, leaving no evidence of our activities.
Errant peanuts won't
shatter windows.
Evaluating the results
of our initial barrage, we realized we had to find a better type of
biodegradable, glass-friendly ammo to harass, not kill, them freakin
pigeons.
Stay tuned, this battle
ain't over yet.