It also had a tag on its ankle. We think it’s a secret agent messenger bird, recently returned from Afghanistan.
See, the former occupant of our apartment got mail under several different names, but lived alone. They were good, solid names, too, like James Smith, and Colin O’Barrah. One was a gun permit postcard. One was a Title Nine magazine. Several were letters from governmental addresses.
Clearly a spy.
And then the pigeon showed up, cooing innocently around our apartment with its tagged ankle.
Finally, Greg stopped to talk to it:
Agent Pigeon: The field is full of gold.
Greg: Only when the rains pour.
Agent Pigeon: It is rather balmy in Jamaica.
Greg: And the mustangs run amok in the piedmont.
Agent Pigeon: Where is Agent Smith?
Greg: Agent Smith was reassigned to Seattle. I’d be happy to take the documents you have, though.
Agent Pigeon: …*coo*.
And then he flew away. I have faith that if it made it to Charlotte, NC from Afghanistan, that Agent Pigeon can make it to Seattle to meet with his favorite secret agent.
Edit: Oh, and did I mention the infectious disease magazines that also arrived in the mail? Title Nine. Infectious diseases. Gun permits. Mmm-hmm.