On pigeons and pick-up artistry

Spring has hit New York in full force over the past several weeks, and in parks and public squares all over the city, this can only mean one thing:

Pigeon Sex.

Of all the animal mating rituals that accompany springtime in the city, the pigeons’ is undoubtedly the most bizarre – easily out-weirding the stray cats having loud, rapey cat sex in the alley behind our building, or the squirrels who make everyone watch their catch-me-if-you-can foreplay as they lead each other on prolonged chases through the park. If you’ve ever spent any time observing a flock of pigeons in action, you’ve probably seen it: The male pigeon struts deliberately after a female pigeon, looking extremely puffed up and self-important, dragging his fanned-out tailfeathers on the ground and making guttural hoot-and-coo noises that sound sort of like "Ohhhh yeah, OHHHH yeah, OOOOOOOOOH YEAH!"

The weirdness, of course, is that it never works.

I’ve been watching pigeons do this for all six years that I've lived in New York, and despite Mr. Pigeon’s best efforts, the hoot-and-coo-and-strut approach to mating is clearly, painfully ineffective. Instead of being rendered immediately, debilitatingly horny by the display, the Lady Pigeons all flee – in horror, judging by the looks of it – scattering in all directions and leaving Mr. Pigeon to chase awkwardly after them while still gamely continuing to hoot and coo and drag his tailfeathers. He’s just clueless. If he could talk, I’m pretty sure he’d be yelling, “Come back here, sluts!”

All told, I just can’t imagine that this ever leads to sex.

Rather, I expect that there is some other, savvier Man Pigeon who sits in a tree and watches this entire agonizing process, then flutters lightly to the ground next to the somewhat-dazed Lady Pigeon once her pursuer has taken wing. And he’s all, “That looked rough,” and the Lady Pigeon is all, “Yeah, it was,” and the pigeon is all, “Hey girl, I’d never play you like that,” and then he invites her back to his loft to listen to some vinyl, and one thing leads to another, and the pigeon population of my local park continues to rage unabated.

Still, you’d think that the other pigeons – the strutting hoot’n’cooers – would eventually notice that their game wasn’t exactly yielding great results. You’d think they might realize the flaw in their approach. You’d think they might, y’know, change it up a little.

Alas, no.

Instead, just like a guy who spends hours rehearsing pickup lines like, “So baby, did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” in the mirror, convinced that it’ll totally work if he just gets the timing right, the pigeons seem to be convinced that the problem isn’t their approach at all; it’s just that they aren’t trying hard enough.

At least, that’s what I assume is happening, here. Because this morning, while walking the dog in the park, I heard a familiar sound. And there, up ahead was a pigeon. Doing the mating strut, dragging his feathers, hooting and cooing… all by himself.

He was practicing.

I tried my best to explain to Mr. Pigeon the futility of his actions. But then I went on the internet and discovered that his brain only weighs like one-quarter of an ounce, so I doubt I made much of an impression.