Two years ago, when I moved into the apartment where I’m still living, a pair of doves moved in too. They started nesting on top of the air conditioning unit on my balcony. It’s up high, so it was often hard to confirm who was home at different times of the day, but I could hear the cooing, the flapping of their wings and the splat of their poo as it hit the concrete below. Some nights they flew in and out for hours, teasing my cat who watched them steadily, dreaming perhaps of how she could climb.
I liked the sound of their wings as they powered off the air conditioner each morning, as if they were following a human set of rules and heading to the office. It was the smell I didn’t like. The slightly musty, dank smell that wafted in when the windows were open. And the sticks that dropped and dropped and dropped from their failed attempt to nest.
I started dreaming about pigeon germs floating in through the air conditioner and souring the air. I couldn’t sit on the couch with the balcony door open and watch television with my son because of the noise of their wings as they hovered in place, dropping their sticks and dinner on the ground.
I scrubbed the ground with green gloves to my elbows, wiping away the poo. But it was back the next morning. They were clearly winning.
I told my son that I wanted them gone. He thought I was being harsh and said if they’d built a nest then they should stay. “What nest?” I asked. The nest was scattered on the ground like a game of pick-up sticks. I went to the hardware store and stocked up on everything they sold to deter birds. Spikes and spikes and spikes. And some flashy tape that was supposed to scare them off.
I waited until the doves were out on their hunting mission for more sticks and then placed my ladder under the air conditioner so I could climb up, up, up to where they nested. I reached the bottom of the unit and stretched high on the second highest step, but even standing on the top, the ladder was too short. I couldn’t see anything.
When a carpenter friend came to do some repairs, I complained to him about the birds and he promised to take a look. He climbed to the top of his ladder which was far taller than mine, and balanced like he was doing yoga on the very top step. I passed up sponges and he scrubbed away all signs of the doves, before brushing away the few sticks that had managed to remain, laughing at their efforts to nest.
If I’d stuck the spikes up on the air conditioner, I would have just placed them anywhere. But he measured them, and then cut the ends to make them fit the length of the unit. He didn’t waste any double-sided tape as he carefully cut it down the middle. And after 10 minutes the deterrents were perfectly in place. Sparkly silver reflective tape hung in lengths from the pole that the birds usually balanced on, and lines of spikes stood around the edge of the air conditioner unit making it impossible for them to land.
We waited.
My friend returned to sanding the walls and I sat on the couch with the balcony door open for the first time in days. A dove flew in. It hovered, like it was trying to work out what had changed. And then it left. Then the other one tried. And it left too. They perched on the top of the church’s slate roof, watching. I was hopeful but freaked by their vigilant stares. They flew in and out multiple times over the next few days, trying to find the weak spot. And then on a Thursday, they flew in as a pair and out as a pair and upstairs as a pair.
I could hear them cooing one floor away and for a second, I felt guilty that I’d moved them on to my neighbour who I didn’t even know. But the cooing sounded more pleasant dulled by distance. The cat watched the air, hoping perhaps they would be back. And I picked up their sticks for the very last time.
Or so I thought.
About four months ago the doves returned. Of course, I don’t know for sure they are the same pair, but they have managed to find a weak spot in the wall of spikes and this time they’ve built a nest and stayed. I was tossing up what to do, when a scientist friend came over for a cup of tea. She told me not to worry about the smell of the poo because it won’t return. This time they’ve built a real nest. This time there’s an egg. Which means this time they’ll keep the area clean for their baby who will hatch any day now. And I can’t possibly disrupt a family of three.
Nova Weetman is an award-winning children’s author. Her memoir, Love, Death & Other Scenes, is published by UQP
