So this is Bernard. The pigeon from Nortre Dame. So, I'll set the scene for you, As I was sitting, writing away, as you do, on a bea-utiful Autumn day, the 'Pigeon Lady', who I'm sure you can imagine; a woman, covered, and I mean covered in pigeons. Pigeons that look as old as the science text books up at Howqua... A few pigeons, obviously too blind, or perhaps too sinister to engage in this frivolous pigeon orgy occurring on perhaps one of Paris' dirtiest and strangest woman's face. Bernard, clearly a senior citizen had broken free from the crowd and wandered his way over to me. Now, imagine back to me, writing, basking in the sun, under an architectural marvel... And now imagine death, in the form of a pigeon, crawling and limping its way over to me. I look down in disgust at this pigeon, if you could even call it that, that was mere cm's away from my feet. In fear that if this pigeon was to suddenly regain his sight, and perhaps suffer from a sever violent fit, may indeed attack me, I tried my best to shooo him away. Bernard then proceeded to, somehow, muster up all of his strength and energy that he had saved from perhaps pretending to be dead most of the time, and jumped up onto the bench I was sitting on. Disgust turned into pity. And pity turned quickly into repulse. At a feeble attempt to shoo Bernard away, I waved my book in his general direction, hoping that this would frighten him away, then I remembered that he was death in a pigeon.... there was no way he would be able to see the book being hurtled towards his face. I was about to give up, and simply stand up and find a new bernard-free place to sit like I probably should have done in the 1st place, when I found Bernard's weakness. Distractions. "Hey Bernard what's that over there?!?!" And just like that, he was gone.
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