Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
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“You can’t post that!” My friend’s warning startles me just as I am about to share a video on my Instagram account. The footage captures Graham, my husband, successfully scaring away a pair of pigeons from their perch high above the front door of our Italian home. Our dolce vita has become decidedly less sweet since these feathered lovebirds arrived for their nightly rendezvous against the backdrop of the Tuscan sunset.
“You’ll face public backlash,” warns Caren, my American neighbour and stray-cat rescuer-cum-pigeon-rights activist. “What if there’s a nest with babies?” Still not convinced that I am getting the message, her voice takes on a more strident tone: “And the fact that this is a problem at your pied-à-terre in Italy won’t exactly win you mass sympathy, will it?”
Her last point is well taken. And I am the first to acknowledge these birds’ redeeming qualities, starting with their heroism in the First and Second World Wars, when they delivered intelligence across enemy lines. I know they have a role to play as part of city ecosystems, serving as consumers and prey for urban raptors. Some varieties are beautiful, bred for exhibitions and prized for their specific size, shape and coloration. And give them credit: They have a tremendous ability to quickly adapt to diverse environments.
But here’s the thing: Pigeons poop. And they have a habit of doing so every 15 to 30 minutes, for a total of 11 kilograms of guano a year. To make matters worse, the olfactory qualities of what they leave behind are not the citrusy, floral and woody notes you’ll find wafting from a bottle of Acqua di Parma. Indeed, my sophisticated smelling abilities – honed by inhaling the aromas of many fine Tuscan reds over the years – detects hints of ammonia and mould.
Furthermore, much like the increasing number of tourists coming to this beautiful hilltop Renaissance town, there seems to be a growing winged population flocking here as well. I’m convinced they all know each other and have recommended the location to their avian family and friends, highlighting its cultural significance in the arts, architecture and year-round music festivals.
There are Italian ornithophiles, for sure, who share Caren’s affection for these city doves. But most families on our street belong to the Maledetti Piccioni (Damn Pigeons) Club, beginning with Gianni. He sells cars for a living and is forced to park some distance away from his home to avoid a popular pigeon roost. Eighty-year-old Anna tells me she’s occasionally late for mass because her failing eyesight means she sometimes steps into the fecal minefield with her Sunday shoes. Ernesto explains that his bald head has been a frequent target over the years.
Our challenges are indeed similar. Freshly laundered sheets drying outdoors often require a second wash because of these aerial vandals. We are on a first-name basis with the owners of the local hardware store because of our frequent trips there to buy paint for our balcony’s tarnished iron railing, table and chairs. Fabio, who works for the community in maintenance, cleans our plugged-up gutters annually, while the city’s street sweeper comes weekly.
“Aiuto!” Upon hearing the cry for help, my Italian neighbours and friends come running armed with solutions, including bird spikes, wrapping the perch in reflective aluminum foil, using motion-activated sound devices and installing decoy owls. While these tactics would typically work fine in other situations, the challenge in our case is the height of the perch. It is six metres above the ground. Even standing on our tiptoes on the two-metre ladder, we are not able to wipe the smirk off their short, stout faces.
Then one day, while doing laundry, a light bulb goes off. Water! Pigeons don’t like getting wet. A sudden spray of water could startle them, creating an association between their perch and an unpleasant experience. Plus, it’s harmless.
Carrying out the plan proves a little more complicated than expected. After disconnecting the hose from the washing machine, Graham needs to climb up the ladder from our second-floor bathroom window, lean precariously out onto the street below – cars whizzing by – to get the right angle for the spray.
Thankfully, the electric water gun he ordered online arrives just as we are running out of clean socks and underwear. The Master Water 05-22 is impressive, boasting a nearly eight-metre range of precision shooting. It’s powered by a removable 1200mAh USB rechargeable battery for easy charging. The 500-milliltre water storage tank is transparent so you can see the remaining water in real time. And the males on the street especially like the rapid machine-gun sounds it makes with each pull of the trigger.
Now that it looks like we’re winning the battle of the pigeons, it’s time to head back to our real home in Victoria. As I’m packing our bags, I can’t help but wonder what the deer, rats and raccoons have been up to in our yard while we’ve been off enjoying the dolce vita. Graham, meanwhile, is looking into shipping a second Master Water 05-22 rifle to our Canadian address. Best not mention that to Caren.
Silvana Saccomani lives in Victoria.