Admiral Turner hated pigeons. Every day they hunched on his windowsill, plastering the ledge white with their droppings, drowning out his Lawrence Welk radio station with their gurgling cooing.
Now, as he sat in the afternoon sunshine in Central Park, keeping to himself on a park bench, the verminous birds wandered around, spreading like the plague, slow-moving and oblivious. They were occasionally stepped on by passing joggers or flattened in a spray of ugly feathers by a speeding bicycle.
How could any man not be moved to laughter by such a sight?
He scowled at the other old fogies cheerfully reaching into sacks and tossing breadcrumbs to the pigeons. It looked like a scene out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie when the birds swarmed around. Didn’t these retirees have anything better to do
