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Parrot for state bird
Today, California made good on its threat to outlaw holding a cell phone to your ear while driving. In observation, a friend sent me this. If only it were true!

July-August 2008 Your Birds photo contest results!
Turns out reading the back of the cereal box in the morning is not a habit engaged in only by humans. Our first-place winner in the July-August photo competition is Mishka, a diet-conscious Senegal owned by Rick Smith. For his shot of Mishka smartly checking out the ingredients before having a bowl of pellets, Rick wins a $50 gift certificate from The Perch.

Second-place honors and a $25 gift certificate go to Kent and Evelyn Hammitt of Hollywood, Fla., for their picture of Dolce, a baby monk parakeet the couple rescued from the street. (Monks are one of several types of non-indigenous wild parrots who have made the U.S. their home.) In the photo a hungry Dolce waiting for a meal from his new parents exhibits the "quaking" that gives monks their more common name of Quaker parakeet. Whatever you want to call him, he's one cute baby.

Deadline for the September-October 2008 Your Birds photo contest is August 10. See you then! (And remember, only one large photo per family per contest, attached to your e-mail. Please do not send links we have to follow to Photo Bucket or another online photo service. We thank you kindly.)

Oh, and a small confession: you know how you can put stuff in a folder and then lose it for a while and then find it later? In the middle of transferring all my ParrotChronicles.com files from a desktop PC to a laptop I did this with a folder of July-August 2008 photo entries. Just found 'em today. D'oh.

In the interest of making my July-August deadline, which is today, June 20, I'm going to hold on to these photos and enter them in the September-October contest. If you don't see your photo in the current contest, it means it got trapped in my disappearing folder. I apologize; just hang tight and you should see it at the end of August. Thanks for understanding.

National Pigeon Day
I wish I had been able to attend the National Pigeon Day observance in Central Park on June 13. Hosted by the New York Bird Club, there was music, speeches, pigeon-shaped cookies and activism aplenty. Also a candlelight prayer service. The gathering centered on contributions made by carrier pigeons Cher Ami, GI Joe and Winkie, who saved the lives of more than 1,000 men in wartime.

Pigeons are the honest, blue-collar working birds of the world. They mate for life, raise as many kids as circumstances allow, and are right there with us on the city sidewalks, shoulder to shoulder, trying to eke out a living just like everyone else. I don't begrudge them a single crumb. Especially when as a species they can boast a war record better than many humans'.

One of my first pets was a pair of pigeons bought at the county fair. I can't remember what I named them, but I do remember their first child, a naked wobbly dollop of protoplasm so repulsive my family named him "Ugh" for Ugly. The first time I saw Ugh's father feed him, I screamed and shooed him away.

"Daddy! Daddy!" I ran to the house in tears. "Ugh's father is trying to kill him." It was only upon careful observance on everyone's part (because my parents didn't know anything about regurgitation either) that we finally figured out Ugh's father was simply sharing a little food out of his crop, which he pumped down Ugh's gullet as gently as possible. It looked bad, though. It really did.

From Ugh and his parents grew a flock of pigeons of 30 and our next-door neighbors were soon complaining that the gravel in their driveway was disappearing. Either that or they believed pigeons carried diseases, though I knew mine didn't. I didn't know yet that pigeons were supposed to be disgusting or flying rats or hated by most of the world. They were my pets and each one had a carefully chosen name. I still have an old Polaroid of the first and only solid white pigeon the flock produced, which after several days of solemn contemplation and time spent with the dictionary I proudly named "Snow Prince."

Most of the time my pets stayed close to home, on the roof of our house. When I had playmates over I liked to show off by calling the pigeons down at feeding time and having them swoop around us. I was surprised to discover that most little girls and some boys had an aversion to birds flying around their heads. Of course, these were the same kids who didn't want to ride my pony or climb fences or see the half-sprouted tadpoles I was growing into frogs. I suspect these children grew up into adults who duck at seagulls and think most large urban birds are disgusting.

I loved my pigeons and all their strange and amusing pigeon ways. The males' puffed chests, bobbing heads and exaggerated bowing. The females' way of pointedly ignoring them. The whine of their wings as they came swooping home at the end of the day. The babies, which never got any prettier than Ugh but which I grew to see as beautiful and as precious as any bald-headed infant. When my entrepreneurial instincts kicked in around the age of 12, I sold my first pair of pigeons to a man across town for $4 apiece, though it secretly broke my heart. When both birds flew home the next day, much to my relief, I begged until Daddy promised he wouldn't tell the man his pigeons had come home to roost. We kept them.

I credit pigeons and my pet chickens with introducing me to the fascinating world of birds, and today when I see a pigeon in need, injured on the street or side of the road, I stop to lend a hand, even if it means boxing him up and taking him home with me, even if it looks like he doesn't stand a chance.

A few weeks ago I was in the car, already late to an appointment when I saw a pigeon standing on the curb, his head hung low on one of the hottest days of the year. I could tell it was a youngster that had had trouble making the transition off the nest and was probably starving and dehydrated. I vowed to return on my way back and pick him up if he was still there.

When I came back three hours later, he was still on the curb, his head dropped so low by now that his beak almost touched the ground. It looked like a case of severe depression, the saddest pigeon in the world. I parked around the corner and walked down the sidewalk in a bad part of town with a folded towel as nonchalantly as possible. When I reached him I checked traffic both ways before stepping into the street to block his escape and I scooped the barely conscious bird up.

He was so determined to live he had stayed on his feet for hours in the broiling heat. Now he collapsed in the towel and eyed me through half-closed lids. I offered him water through the night but he died the next morning. I still think if I had stopped the first time I saw him he would have made it.

Our pets have a profound effect on us. Regardless, I suspect most of us who frequent this site don't need a National Pigeon Day to remind us that all life deserves a chance, even the lowly rock dove. It's mostly competition for space that puts people in a nasty mood about pigeons. If you put him in a natural setting, among rocks and flowers and trees instead of on a ledge above the public's head, the poor pigeon would get a lot more tolerance and respect. Then even the most ardent pigeon hater might coo, "What a pretty bird."

To find out how to support the pigeon, visit www.peopleforpigeons.com.

Welcome back, Windy City!
Our old friends at Windy City Parrot are back on ParrotChronicles.com pages and this advertiser has more than ever to offer: toys, cages, bird food, you name it. Shop this Windy City without ever leaving your chair at Windy City Parrot.

-- Carla Thornton, Editor