Normally I'd euthanase the feral bastards as soon as I got home but Mum saw them.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Euthanasing them."
"No you're not."
"But this one has a dislocated shoulder, and they're both ferals anyway."
"They're my birds."
Suddenly, in the space of three words, I found myself preparing to kill my Mum's pet pigeons.
So now the birds live in the back yard, walking around as they search for food, drinking from the fish pond and sleeping under the bbq table beside the dog kennels.The off-white one can fly, but always returns to its grounded mate. They are protected from cats by the dogs, and wander around the dogs without a care. It only took one "BADDOG!" from Mum to undo my dozens of "Skitch the rats!" attempts.
On the whole, I think I'd prefer metaphorical pigeons.
