Written 23 November 2020
Tommy poked the pigeon with his hockey stick. It didn't react, just laid there, eyes open, looking frosty.
“What are you doing Tommy?” his mum, already irritable due to spending her Saturday morning watching an Under 7’s hockey match in Baltic temperatures, just wanted to get in the car and go home.
“This pigeon isn't moving.” Tommy said, prodding the pigeon again to demonstrate. His mum considered it for a second.
“It's sleeping.” she said, simply. “now come on, let's get going.”
“Why is it's eyes open, then?” Tommy asked, helpfully pointing out the offending area with the stick as if presenting evidence in court. Again, his mum paused.
“Pigeons don't have eyelids.” she said. “Now, come on, it's too cold to be stood in the. . .”
“It's rock solid, though.” Tommy interrupted.
“That's what happens to pigeons when they're asleep.” she replied with a bite of Impatience.
“Shouldn't it wake up when I prod it?” Tommy said, resuming his prodding.
“Look, we haven't got time to talk about this. . .” But she stopped short as Tommy had bent over to pick up the dead pigeon. “What are you doing?” and before she could stop him he had thrown the bird across the car park. It landed 12 feet away with a pathetic thud. It's stomach ruptured, spilling out the bird's insides.
“I reckon it's dead, you know.” Tommy said matter of factly. And he walked past his shocked mother towards the car.