At this point, I feel like I need to file some kind of official report. Maybe go to the police, explain that I am being specifically targeted by a feathered psychopath with a personal vendetta.
Because this was not my first run-in with The Pigeon.
The first time, I wrote it off as bad luck. A freak incident. A random act of street crime, committed by a particularly confident bird who saw an opportunity and took it. But now? Now, it’s a pattern.
Now, I know it’s war.
The History of Violence
Our first encounter had been outside a café, where he stole an entire sugar packet from my saucer and flew off into the sunset like some kind of winged outlaw. I thought that was the end of it. I assumed he had better things to do. Bigger crimes to commit.
But I was wrong.
He remembered me.
And this time, he came back for blood.
The Second Attack
I was sitting in a plaza, minding my own business, eating a croissant and trying to appear calm, collected, like a woman who belongs in Spain. I had my sunglasses on. I was drinking a coffee that I had correctly ordered for once. I was at peace.
And then I felt it.
The shift in the air. The eerie silence before disaster.
I turned my head slowly. And there he was.
Same pigeon. Same beady, dead-eyed stare. Perched on the edge of the fountain, watching me. Waiting.
I should have left. A smarter person would have left. But no. I stayed. Because I refused to live in fear.
That was my mistake.
Because before I could react, he launched.
This was not a casual, opportunistic swoop. This was an aerial ambush. A full-scale, wings-out, beak-first assassination attempt.
I flailed. I made a noise I have never made before in my life. A mix between a scream, a gasp, and the final breath of a dying Victorian woman.
He did not care.
He landed on my table. He grabbed my croissant like it was legally his. And then—the final insult—he made direct eye contact with me before taking off.
DIRECT. EYE. CONTACT.
Like he needed me to know. Like he wanted me to understand who was in control here.
It was not me.
The Aftermath
I sat there, in shock, half a croissant lighter. A man at the next table, who had witnessed everything, slowly nodded.
“Es tuyo ahora,” he said.
It’s his now.
And honestly? He was right. I accept defeat.
I don’t know when The Pigeon will strike again. But I do know this: he’s out there. Watching. Waiting.
And I am no longer safe.
