It is not all chocolate and foie gras here in our pastoral little neighborhood 15 minutes outside of Geneva. Oh no. There is a dark, mean side to our bucolic neighborhood situated amongst the farmland along Lac Lehman.
Our street and yard are surrounded by huge lacy trees with ivy climbing up the trunks and now, in mid April, the branches are tufted with the new green shoots of emerging leaves while the lawns are studded with clutches of daffodils, wild primrose and waves of exquisite violet tinged tiny daisies that open during the day and close back up at dusk and then resemble carpets of clover. Forsythia shrubs are scattered through all the yards and along the streets and they are plumed in garish canary yellow now - lovely. But evil lurks here nonetheless. Well, evil for our cars any way.
Oddly enough, even though it snows and rains here frequently and there is plenty of road mud, and debris falling from the trees - seedpods, pollen, any manner of leaves and mosses - the Swiss are not particularly big on garages. Many houses, including ours, have only open driveways or perhaps a halfhearted minimalist car park that barely covers one car while the second, alas, is left to the mercy of the elements, as well as the aforementioned evil. It is an evil that dwells amongst the lovely trees that surround us. The name of that evil is, specifically, Pigeons.
We're not talking run of the mill city pigeons here. Oh no. These are some kind of genetic throwback retro pigeons that harken back to their dinosaur ancestors and drop huge, golf ball sized turds on our defenseless cars with unrelenting and truly hair-raising accuracy. They have begun to inspire real dread in me, as well as real respect. Each day I come out to find they have hit the hood, windshield and driver side door handle yet again. A quick examination of the surrounding driveway shows no signs of collateral damage or errant drops. They hit the cars with pinpoint accuracy and no wasted shots. I must admit I grudgingly admire the bizarre intelligence at work in these strange creatures that attack from the sky, even though the purpose of their actions utterly escapes me. I am reminded continually of the Gary Larson cartoon where the bird sits above the car being washed below and thinks to itself "you are mine! All mine!"
The one thing I am thankful for is that they have not yet, at least so far, taken aim at any of us humans who are occasionally in their target zone. Thus I have, in a strange way, reconnected to our earlier ancestors, at least the ones in B rated caveman horror flicks. I now look to the sky with a touch of fear each time I venture out and wonder what danger lurks in the skies above.
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