(I wrote this a few months back and though someone might want to read it)
Unfinished: A Pigeons Story
A recent satellite picked up this unfinished manuscript from somewhere around Pluto on January 1, 2000. It was unable to be deciphered by many of the worlds leading scientists, and only recently was found to be written in pure Russian. This was due to its small and extremely scratchy writing, on a very thin unbending paper. Certain original Russian words have been left in for authenticity. The name of the author is still unknown.
Translated by D.L. *************
COPYRIGHT AWESOMEFOWL DO NOT STEAL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
A pigeon? How many creatures, both animal and human, have exclaimed this upon seeing me.
Yes, I am a pigeon. Not a trumpeter, roller, homing, or exhibition pigeon, but just a common rock pigeon.
This is my story.
Chapter 1 * My Early Life
I was born in a feral colony living on the backstreets of middle twentieth century Soviet Moscow. My father, I am told, was the leader of the colony of large streetwise birds, mean and revengeful. I am also told they used to frequent a local bars garbage, and get very drunk on the spilled vodka aroma. Pigeons are not known for their strong heads.
My mother, on the other hand, was a flighty exhibition dove, overbred and wild. Due to this disposition she had been abandoned on the streets when quite young, which sobered her up somewhat. However, she too would get rather tipsy and wild at times, making me hide my head under my wing for shame. My father would roar with boisterous laughter at me then, and call attention to me by his rowdy friends.
Naturally, this was crushing to a sensitive and imaginative bird like me, and I grew up rather shy, scared and afraid. I still have not gotten over the scent of that vodka.
I was especially afraid of humans, having been told a frightful story of a lost chick who had been eaten alive by some dark-eyed starved serfs in the 1800s.
When I was nearly nine months old, tragedy struck. My parents were both shot by the owner of the garbage pile they frequented. Two of their close acquaintances, Vladimir and Tolstoi were greatly shaken by their deaths. At least, Vladimir was. He became a complete alcoholic, his feathers growing ragged and dirty as he drank himself to death. One night he never returned.
Tolstoi, now a teetotaler, then tried to comfort me, urging me to move into an empty nest near him so I wouldnt be lonely. He meant well, being stolid and kind-hearted, but rather unemotional for a Russian.
I moved in. His nest near me turned out to be rather a bad idea as his wife, Svetlana, was a loud and shrewish hen-- very plump, productive, and good at raising chicks, but a complete headache to be near. Tolstoi loved her though, and they had raised some fine clutches together.
I would play and tell stories to Svetlanas latest clutch, both hens, and wonder how long before they would be just like their mother.
I lived with Tolstoi for one month. I had found that stuffing ones ears with dirt really blocked out some of the noise, and was beginning to get used to their peculiar ways, when the event that came to define my whole life occurred. Had this not happened, my life would have been much like any other pigeon on the streets of Moscow.
Chapter 2 * I learn to read and write
That night which marked my entire life began normally. I tucked my head under my wing and went to sleep immediately. I have always been a good sleepertoo much, in this case.
As I drifted off into a dreamless hibernation, I thought I was dreaming. I heard a sharp female voice say Ya ne ponimayu(I do not understand)! You are crazy, Olaf!
Then I felt a sharp pain in my breast, and I lost consciousness.
When I woke up I was in a small white cage in a white room filled with cages of all sizes. A euphony of animal sounds filled the room. Dogs barking, cats mewing, hens clucking, and pigeons cooing filled the room with noise. I could not see, but could hear the same sharp female voice in my dream talking on, and on, using language I could not understand.
My head felt like it was going to explode as a pretty child crossed the room and stuck her hand in the cage to pet me.
Here, Ive brought you a friend! She cooed in broken Russian, and placed a beautiful little female dove in the cage. Then she looked around as if wary. The sharp voice was coming closer. I must help my country, beat those Americans, she said in choked voice, and fled, leaving me and the little dove alone. Now that I am older, I can understand that Anastasia must have been her pet. She gave her up to help what she thought was a right cause.
The dove sat in the corner, afraid to look at me. I was equally afraid of her, especially as she was a hen. Darkness fell in the room, and I slept again, worn out from the extreme stress I was going through.
Humans underestimate the stress which transportation and new surroundings puts animals through. They cannot feel it themselves and thus suppose animals cant; sometimes I have wondered whether humans feel at all. Then I think of that little girl.
Anyhow, the next two months were a blur of new learning, examinations of my feathers and body, and moving, all done by the sharp-voiced, snapping female with dark hair, whose name turned out to be Natasha, and the gray haired quiet man, Olaf Domoritsky. All I can remember is that at some point these all ceased and I knew how to write and read, which skills have never yet failed me.
Anastasia, the dove, was moved into an adjoining cage. After the blurred time was over, the humans treated me like a king for reasons unknown to me then, feeding me corn, peas, cooked rice, bits of meat, and leaves of lettuce. I grew sleek shiny, and rather proud, yet still shy. Plus, the noise had ceased, mostly, in the long white room. Only three dogs were left (before there must have been hundreds) and one -dimwitted black hen, who laid a double-yolked brown egg every morning and informed us of the fact with her exuberant clucking. I read her label on the front of the cage. It said Mary, Black Orloff. ---- those Americans. The blank was a very dirty, low class word which Natasha would fling at Olaf sometimes. He never said anything in reply.
The dogs labels said Laika, Albina and Mushka. Those poor dogs were fed well, but Laika was a small mongrel who always had an prophetic air of evil foreboding, which scared the other dogs. One day I heard her say We shall all die. Another time she said Soon. Very soon. I was scared by this but not for long, having unfortunately inherited a short attention span. It is with great difficulty I am writing this, even.
One day I looked out the bars of the cage to discover the little dove hen miserably hunched in a corner of her cage. Her buff colored feathers were draggled, dirty, and sad-looking. She was sitting next to an untouched bowl of delicious dried peas, and sneezing woefully.
I gathered up all my courage and said, Zdravstvuyte; Kak vas zovut (Hello; what is your name)?
The dove turned her head towards me and whispered, My name is Anastasia. What isy-y-yours?
I replied, My name is- But just then Natasha came in, swearing huskily at everything in sight, and snatched Anastasia out of her cage. Natasha was nearly as bad as Svetlana, I reflected, wondering what she was doing with the little dove.
Half an hour later, Natasha was back.This little oneshe is stupid! She exclaimed exasperately as she none too gently shoved Anastasia back in her cage. You are smarter, but still stupid, Natasha told me through the bars of the cage. I am about to get fired by Olaf, all because of that one ---- dove! Im only his wife! Natasha stalked out of the room swearing angrily. That dove! Those pigeons! That dove! Those dogs! Those ---- dogs!!!
Gradually the sound of Natashas harsh voice faded out, down the long halls and corridors past the door of the white room. I pulled my head out from under my sleek wing, where I had hidden it desperately during Natashas long dissertation.
Anastasia was huddled in the corner of her cage again, looking more bedraggled than ever. I said Zdravstvuyte to her again and her frightened head to turned to meet my gaze.
Her eyes were the most beautiful eyes I ever have seen in human or bird. They were dark brown, large, lustrous, and exceptionally lovely. I started back at meeting her gaze. But then I saw the frightened hunger, grief, and sadness in them, and set out to comfort this poor, yet beautiful hen.
So, where are you from? I asked her, trying to start a conversation and bring her out of her shell. That was not a pun.
I am from the Ukraine. She answered tentatively. Her voice was also exceptionally sweet and soft. My mistress Sofia left me here for the humans to experiment on.
With a start, I realized why we were here. How did you find that out? I demanded.
Sofia told me all that on the way here. Anastasia looked tragic again.
Never mind; dont worry. I said bravely. Eat so that you wont die. They are treating us well here, and I have learned to read. I was very proud of this accomplishment.
Please dont worry! I entreated her hastily as she started to peck at the peas.
She lifted up her head and said, But I cant learn! They will probably eat me!
I knew what to say. No one eats doves. My mother was a dove, just like you, and no one ate her. I decided Anastasia didnt need to know what happened to my mother.
Anastasia pecked a little stronger. Was your mother a good mother?
Well, she was most of the time. You are prettier than she was, though, I added truthfully, wanting to make this poor hen feel happier.
Anastasia regarded me warily after this last remark. You look like a nice pigeon. She said after visually inspecting me. How old are you?
Im ten months old. I said, wondering how old she was.
Im eight months old, Anastasia said through a beakful of grit. She giggled softly then got shy again, and retreated to her corner with her head under her wing, for night was coming.
COPYRIGHT AWESOMEFOWL
Unfinished: A Pigeons Story
A recent satellite picked up this unfinished manuscript from somewhere around Pluto on January 1, 2000. It was unable to be deciphered by many of the worlds leading scientists, and only recently was found to be written in pure Russian. This was due to its small and extremely scratchy writing, on a very thin unbending paper. Certain original Russian words have been left in for authenticity. The name of the author is still unknown.
Translated by D.L. *************
COPYRIGHT AWESOMEFOWL DO NOT STEAL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
A pigeon? How many creatures, both animal and human, have exclaimed this upon seeing me.
Yes, I am a pigeon. Not a trumpeter, roller, homing, or exhibition pigeon, but just a common rock pigeon.
This is my story.
Chapter 1 * My Early Life
I was born in a feral colony living on the backstreets of middle twentieth century Soviet Moscow. My father, I am told, was the leader of the colony of large streetwise birds, mean and revengeful. I am also told they used to frequent a local bars garbage, and get very drunk on the spilled vodka aroma. Pigeons are not known for their strong heads.
My mother, on the other hand, was a flighty exhibition dove, overbred and wild. Due to this disposition she had been abandoned on the streets when quite young, which sobered her up somewhat. However, she too would get rather tipsy and wild at times, making me hide my head under my wing for shame. My father would roar with boisterous laughter at me then, and call attention to me by his rowdy friends.
Naturally, this was crushing to a sensitive and imaginative bird like me, and I grew up rather shy, scared and afraid. I still have not gotten over the scent of that vodka.
I was especially afraid of humans, having been told a frightful story of a lost chick who had been eaten alive by some dark-eyed starved serfs in the 1800s.
When I was nearly nine months old, tragedy struck. My parents were both shot by the owner of the garbage pile they frequented. Two of their close acquaintances, Vladimir and Tolstoi were greatly shaken by their deaths. At least, Vladimir was. He became a complete alcoholic, his feathers growing ragged and dirty as he drank himself to death. One night he never returned.
Tolstoi, now a teetotaler, then tried to comfort me, urging me to move into an empty nest near him so I wouldnt be lonely. He meant well, being stolid and kind-hearted, but rather unemotional for a Russian.
I moved in. His nest near me turned out to be rather a bad idea as his wife, Svetlana, was a loud and shrewish hen-- very plump, productive, and good at raising chicks, but a complete headache to be near. Tolstoi loved her though, and they had raised some fine clutches together.
I would play and tell stories to Svetlanas latest clutch, both hens, and wonder how long before they would be just like their mother.
I lived with Tolstoi for one month. I had found that stuffing ones ears with dirt really blocked out some of the noise, and was beginning to get used to their peculiar ways, when the event that came to define my whole life occurred. Had this not happened, my life would have been much like any other pigeon on the streets of Moscow.
Chapter 2 * I learn to read and write
That night which marked my entire life began normally. I tucked my head under my wing and went to sleep immediately. I have always been a good sleepertoo much, in this case.
As I drifted off into a dreamless hibernation, I thought I was dreaming. I heard a sharp female voice say Ya ne ponimayu(I do not understand)! You are crazy, Olaf!
Then I felt a sharp pain in my breast, and I lost consciousness.
When I woke up I was in a small white cage in a white room filled with cages of all sizes. A euphony of animal sounds filled the room. Dogs barking, cats mewing, hens clucking, and pigeons cooing filled the room with noise. I could not see, but could hear the same sharp female voice in my dream talking on, and on, using language I could not understand.
My head felt like it was going to explode as a pretty child crossed the room and stuck her hand in the cage to pet me.
Here, Ive brought you a friend! She cooed in broken Russian, and placed a beautiful little female dove in the cage. Then she looked around as if wary. The sharp voice was coming closer. I must help my country, beat those Americans, she said in choked voice, and fled, leaving me and the little dove alone. Now that I am older, I can understand that Anastasia must have been her pet. She gave her up to help what she thought was a right cause.
The dove sat in the corner, afraid to look at me. I was equally afraid of her, especially as she was a hen. Darkness fell in the room, and I slept again, worn out from the extreme stress I was going through.
Humans underestimate the stress which transportation and new surroundings puts animals through. They cannot feel it themselves and thus suppose animals cant; sometimes I have wondered whether humans feel at all. Then I think of that little girl.
Anyhow, the next two months were a blur of new learning, examinations of my feathers and body, and moving, all done by the sharp-voiced, snapping female with dark hair, whose name turned out to be Natasha, and the gray haired quiet man, Olaf Domoritsky. All I can remember is that at some point these all ceased and I knew how to write and read, which skills have never yet failed me.
Anastasia, the dove, was moved into an adjoining cage. After the blurred time was over, the humans treated me like a king for reasons unknown to me then, feeding me corn, peas, cooked rice, bits of meat, and leaves of lettuce. I grew sleek shiny, and rather proud, yet still shy. Plus, the noise had ceased, mostly, in the long white room. Only three dogs were left (before there must have been hundreds) and one -dimwitted black hen, who laid a double-yolked brown egg every morning and informed us of the fact with her exuberant clucking. I read her label on the front of the cage. It said Mary, Black Orloff. ---- those Americans. The blank was a very dirty, low class word which Natasha would fling at Olaf sometimes. He never said anything in reply.
The dogs labels said Laika, Albina and Mushka. Those poor dogs were fed well, but Laika was a small mongrel who always had an prophetic air of evil foreboding, which scared the other dogs. One day I heard her say We shall all die. Another time she said Soon. Very soon. I was scared by this but not for long, having unfortunately inherited a short attention span. It is with great difficulty I am writing this, even.
One day I looked out the bars of the cage to discover the little dove hen miserably hunched in a corner of her cage. Her buff colored feathers were draggled, dirty, and sad-looking. She was sitting next to an untouched bowl of delicious dried peas, and sneezing woefully.
I gathered up all my courage and said, Zdravstvuyte; Kak vas zovut (Hello; what is your name)?
The dove turned her head towards me and whispered, My name is Anastasia. What isy-y-yours?
I replied, My name is- But just then Natasha came in, swearing huskily at everything in sight, and snatched Anastasia out of her cage. Natasha was nearly as bad as Svetlana, I reflected, wondering what she was doing with the little dove.
Half an hour later, Natasha was back.This little oneshe is stupid! She exclaimed exasperately as she none too gently shoved Anastasia back in her cage. You are smarter, but still stupid, Natasha told me through the bars of the cage. I am about to get fired by Olaf, all because of that one ---- dove! Im only his wife! Natasha stalked out of the room swearing angrily. That dove! Those pigeons! That dove! Those dogs! Those ---- dogs!!!
Gradually the sound of Natashas harsh voice faded out, down the long halls and corridors past the door of the white room. I pulled my head out from under my sleek wing, where I had hidden it desperately during Natashas long dissertation.
Anastasia was huddled in the corner of her cage again, looking more bedraggled than ever. I said Zdravstvuyte to her again and her frightened head to turned to meet my gaze.
Her eyes were the most beautiful eyes I ever have seen in human or bird. They were dark brown, large, lustrous, and exceptionally lovely. I started back at meeting her gaze. But then I saw the frightened hunger, grief, and sadness in them, and set out to comfort this poor, yet beautiful hen.
So, where are you from? I asked her, trying to start a conversation and bring her out of her shell. That was not a pun.
I am from the Ukraine. She answered tentatively. Her voice was also exceptionally sweet and soft. My mistress Sofia left me here for the humans to experiment on.
With a start, I realized why we were here. How did you find that out? I demanded.
Sofia told me all that on the way here. Anastasia looked tragic again.
Never mind; dont worry. I said bravely. Eat so that you wont die. They are treating us well here, and I have learned to read. I was very proud of this accomplishment.
Please dont worry! I entreated her hastily as she started to peck at the peas.
She lifted up her head and said, But I cant learn! They will probably eat me!
I knew what to say. No one eats doves. My mother was a dove, just like you, and no one ate her. I decided Anastasia didnt need to know what happened to my mother.
Anastasia pecked a little stronger. Was your mother a good mother?
Well, she was most of the time. You are prettier than she was, though, I added truthfully, wanting to make this poor hen feel happier.
Anastasia regarded me warily after this last remark. You look like a nice pigeon. She said after visually inspecting me. How old are you?
Im ten months old. I said, wondering how old she was.
Im eight months old, Anastasia said through a beakful of grit. She giggled softly then got shy again, and retreated to her corner with her head under her wing, for night was coming.
COPYRIGHT AWESOMEFOWL
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