I think I witnessed the efforts of a suicidal pigeon today. Either that, or the tiny bird was blind, deaf and drunk.
I was walking Wally (the aging boxer) when I noticed the little guy tempting fate in the middle of the street. "Pidge" looked like he had just come off a four-night drinking and hooking binge and was now wandering the paved roads with reckless abandon. He had given up on life and remained completely unfazed as looming tires came within centimeters of his little feathered body.
The whole ordeal broke my heart. Maybe I saw a little part of myself in the tiny beady eyes staring back at me over his dirty beak. I too hadn't showered in days, and was feeling the overpowering blanket of depression cover me with feelings of insecurity and uncertainty about my future. And sometimes, I eat things off the floor. It's like we were two soul friends connecting just at the right moment.
I felt horrible, and tried to devise a plan to talk him off the ledge. But I feared that approaching Pidge with Wally in hand would only push him further into the depths of despair. So, I stood on the side of the road and, with open arms (and matzah crumbs), coaxed the Winged Depressive over to me.
There was no way for me to explain -- in bird speak -- that everything would be ok. But I still felt confident about my exploits. Pidge got a new lease on life, and so did I.