I saw a pigeon explode yesterday. PPPPPoooouuuuufffffffffffffffff.
As we sped in the car towards the cloud of soft downy pillow feathers, dancing and drifting in the cold, I spied my friend, Alice. Driving the other way. Mouth as wide as a motorway tunnel, eyes bulging with horror. Arms stiff on the steering wheel. A shadow of her former self.
She had hit the pigeon with a Glancing Blow, and it had left, poor thing, an imprint of its body on her windscreen. Pigeon meeting windscreen at 50 miles an hour is Terminal.
Needless to say, we had Plenty To Say about driving into birds and animals in the playground, just a half hour later.
As Alice regaled the tale it turned out that everyone had a 'I killed a ... story.'
'I killed a deer.'
'I ran over a sheep.'
'I killed two pheasants at the same time.' (me)
'I ran into a cow.'
On its way to Pigeon Home. And Boooomph.
End of. Finito. All Done In.
Life's short, girls and boys.
(This post just SO should have been called Pigeon Post. Dammit, why didnt I think of that?)