Flash Not-So-Fiction Friday: Social Characteristics of Doves and Pigeons

Photo by Jennifer E. Miller, 2016

Social Characteristics of Doves and Pigeons

 By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Doves and pigeons are basically the same bird. Except one is primarily found in the cities asking for handouts like a welfare junkie, while the other is in the wild living off the land.

Pigeons are urban dwellers. They hang out on lampposts and park benches; stalk people from statues and rooftops; and annoyingly tailgate unsuspecting victims. Once they’ve zeroed in on someone to pester, they inch their way closer and closer, until the person senses they are followed. Upon turning around, they find the pigeons about-face, pretending like nothing odd is transpiring.

Another strategy is ambushing city dwellers. By hanging out above ground, say in a tree, large numbers of them are less likely to be immediately spotted. Imagine a person enjoying a refreshing afternoon lunch break with a sandwich in hand, strolling through the park. He expects to walk back to the office without incident while taking periodic bites from the sandwich. Then it happens. He walks under a tree momentarily enjoying the shade, while a flock of pigeons signal to one another. In unison, they swoop down from the branches, landing on the ground, and crisscross their way aimlessly on the ground in front of the city dweller, surprising him. He has never seen so many birds congregate this close.

The pigeons cock their heads, cooing away in a secret language he can’t decipher. Mistakenly, he thinks this is a cool experience. He studies them, when one flaps its wings, approaching him. It hovers midair near his arm, the one holding the sandwich, which he naively moves away from his body to create a perch. The pigeon lands on it and lets out a throaty coo. Another one flies on next to the first. A third assumes positions on the opposite shoulder. Letting out a chuckle, the city-dweller enjoys the attention. Then it happens. The pigeons peck at his sandwich. They tried to tell him in their language, that they wanted a handout, but he didn’t get the message and have now resorted to an ambush strategy.

He tries to swat them away, but more and more pigeons fly up to their victim, flapping feathers and dust into his face. With no other option, the city dweller drops his sandwich and runs back to the office. Success!

Doves, on the other hand, live quietly in the forest nestled somewhere in the trees. They are self-sufficient creatures—until they find the backyard patio feeder in the early morning hours. They typically scope out the grub by sitting on a fence post or railing. With a squawk, they flap themselves to the ground to walk toward the ground feeder. They have tiny skinny little legs and small heads compared to their plump bodies, and thrust their heads forward while walking as though it’s going to propel them to the feast faster. A few doves is all it takes to quickly desecrate the seed offering.

Others show up at the food site, only to find the feeder empty, which kick start their city cousin instincts. They don't view the birdseed as a handout, but rather there needs to be fairness with plenty to go around. When there isn’t enough to share, they coo loudly, intending to wake up the human who supplies it. If that doesn’t work, they gently tap on the window with their beaks. In extreme cases, the flock sends a kamikaze into the window with a wakening thump. The bird, plastered awkwardly to the glass, slides down into oblivion. The human sits up, rubs her tired eyes, and looks out the window. Feeling bad for the dove, and riddled with sorrow and guilt, she notices the empty feeder and promptly refills it. Soon an entire extended family of dove have arrived to eat.

The doves’ feast appears harmonious and jolly, until they notice the quail lining up on the rooftop…

Copyright 2018 Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Riding in the Car at Night

Photo Pixabay CC0 Creative Commons License

We have those moments when something--could be anything--connects us to a specific memory. A memory that we wonder why it is even a memory to begin with. It subconsciously sticks with us that years down the road, when it resurrects, we can recall our senses. Someday it will reveal its meaning, but until then we simply reflect on the memory connection. 

Riding In the Car at Night

By,
Jennifer E. Miller

Along the dark highway. Rarely another car in sight. I relax in the seat; the leather conforms to my curves.

Staring through the window, I watch the painted dotted lines tick by to the rhythm of Jim Croce’s soft tunes via the stereo speakers, moving me down the highway. I got a name, too, but I don’t need to say it.

The tires whir over the pavement spinning comforting background noise, like a vinyl record’s static. Sometimes a seam in the road interrupts with a click, as when the needle jumps; skipping lyrics. And just as the song continues to move ahead, I keep rolling down the highway.

I can’t tell if life is passing me by when the light poles repeat like a broken record. They flash by—short, then grow tall as they approach, finally shrinking down, out of sight. Pools of their orangey glow dabble across the windshield, momentarily illuminating my face allowing me to see my own reflection, perhaps like my daddy did, when he drove this route.

I’m headed nowhere; is anyone going my way? It’s a lonely road, and I must be a fool to dream of the pine trees shaking to life, giving me company. But nothing else Jim sings of is awake. It’s night and they all dream, hidden, as I move ahead—pass them by—rolling free down the highway.

Copyright 2018 Jennifer E. Miller 

Flash Fiction Friday: Alternative Fishing Methods Part 3

Pixabay Creative Commons License

Flash Fiction Friday arrived on a Tuesday. I've been behind lately. Sorry, again, for the delay. This is the final installment of Alternative Fishing Methods. Enjoy.

Alternative Fishing Methods Part 3

By,
Jennifer E. Miller

Disappointed, Dusty pulled his small aluminum fishing boat off the boat launch, leaving a little trail of water dripping from the trailer. It was the third weekend in a row without any luck catching fish. He thought maybe he needed to upgrade his vessel from a rowboat size with a 15 HP motor to something more fancy. However, he knew that his friends, with more expensive equipment, didn’t necessarily have better luck then him. They did, however, spend more money on upkeep and gear. He decided to keep troubleshooting until he zeroed in on what was making the fish bite.

Dusty had tried grubs, worms, and even those rubber frogs which he danced over the lily pads like a marionette at the end of his fishing line. Nothing worked.

Today he brought along preserved shads; expensive ones that his buddies insisted were the only brand to spend his money on. They were soaked in laboratory engineered scents, artful packaging, and sat behind the counter in a locked display case. Even with the high price tag, Dusty still wound up empty handed. Discouraged, he was determined to come up with another solution. A creative one. He would lure the fish not with a lure, but a luring tactic.

Dusty had an outdoor pond where he had thrown in a couple of goldfish that had outgrown their aquarium. They were larger than the average aquarium specimen, but smaller than a koi.

The aquarium had brought a peaceful ambiance to the living room, and Dusty found that he missed it once he transferred the goldfish to the outdoor pond. He began spending more time in his yard sitting on the ledge of the pond to relax while reading or eating. The two goldfish, one orange and one white, swam up and puckered their mouths at the surface; most likely looking for food.

One day, Dusty placed his finger just above the water and moved it back and forth. To his amusement, the fish chased it. He thought it was a fluke, but it happened again the next day so he rewarded them with an extra pinch of food. He took his exercise a step further by running his finger along the water then raising it up quickly. At first, the goldfish didn’t do much except stare, fan their fins, and pucker their mouths. On later attempts, they stuck their mouths out of the water. It progressed to popping their faces out, and before long the fish were leaping out of the water when Dusty raised his finger. He had trained his goldfish to jump like the dolphins at Sea World. Now that they were capable of jumping out of the pond, he had to keep a screen over the top when he wasn’t there.

Now this trick could prove useful in Dusty’s fishing woes. His luring tactic was simple: place a goldfish in the lake, have it chase his finger, let a wild fish come to it, and in the nick of time raise his finger and have it jump back into the boat. Dusty would have a net sitting in the water when the wild fish continued swimming straight ahead when his goldfish leaped to safety. There’s no reason why this shouldn’t work.

* * *

Dusty’s trailer bounced and creaked over the bumps in the road on the way to the lake. He glanced over at the front passenger seat, his old aquarium half full of water splashed water over its edges. Inside, floated his two goldfish, glubbing as if the jostle didn’t phase them one bit.

Arriving at the boat launch, he back in the trailer as usual, released the boat, parked the truck, and returned carrying his aquarium of goldfish. He passed a pair of tobacco chewing fisherman lollygagging at the shore.

“What’s he carrying his pet fish for?”

“Beats me. Unless he’s the type who likes to drive the game warden crazy by introducing a new species into the lake.”

The first man spat out a wad of chew. “Should we tell the bonehead not to?”

“Nah.”

When Dusty reached his boat, the breeze picked up, sending gentle ripples over the lake’s surface and rustling the leaves in the trees on shore. Ever so carefully, he stepped into his small boat, steadying himself before bringing the opposite leg in. He gently placed the aquarium on the floor, wedging it as best he could between the seats. Satisfied, with his arrangement, Dusty yanked on the pull-start and the motor bubbled to life with a brief puff of exhaust. Steering the boat in reverse, the captain and unlikely crew were off.

Dusty made sure that his pace was slow and steady, staying clear of any bumps or waves. He found his fishing spot empty; unusual, but welcomed nonetheless. Before getting started, he decided a bare spot along the shore was best for a practice run.

The boat slunk into the sand, sliding to a stop. Natural waves lapped against the metal hull with a dull clink. Dusty climbed out of the boat into the water and grabbed the goldfish net he’d brought along. He scooped the orange one out first, and while still confined in the net, dipped it in the lake water. At first, the goldfish panicked. After a few moments, it calmed down, fanning its fins rhythmically.

Next, Dusty removed the net to see what the goldfish would do. It swam around in circles but didn’t stray far. Dusty put his finger near the water and the goldfish came right up to it, just like in the pond. They practiced the leaping skill and the goldfish was rewarded with a pinch of food.

This test was repeated with the white goldfish, which passed as well. Dusty placed his goldfish back into the aquarium and motored out to his usual fishing spot further out.

Gently, he scooped out the orange goldfish, placing in the lake. Dusty turned the motor handle to the lowest gear, putting his way over the water, while the opposite hand’s finger was outstretched over the water’s surface. As the boat moved, the goldfish followed. Before long, a bass tailed it. As it ganged up on the goldfish, Dusty raised his finger and his pet leaped into the boat while the bass swam into the fishing net secured to the side of the boat. There was more scrambling than expected to get the goldfish back into the aquarium and the caught bass into the boat. But—the ruse worked.

He tried the white goldfish next but no luck. After several minutes it tired, so he scooped it back in the boat and switched fish again. A second bass swam up and Dusty instructed the goldfish to leap as before. After securing the goldfish’s safety, Dusty examined the bass. It was considerably larger than the first one, and more than capable of swallowing his pets. He was putting his goldfish in very real danger. However, the risk was paying off.

He took a snack break, noticing an osprey circling overhead. After finishing, he scooped up the white goldfish a second time, deposited it into the lake, and starts his motor. Not long later, a large elongated head appears behind it; and far more ferocious, than the bass. It was a two foot muskie with teeth that will turn that palette of pure while goldfish scales into a dripping red canvas.

Dusty directed the white goldfish to leap out of the water. It wiggled its little tail as it sailed through the air. To his disbelief, the muskie splashed out of the water after it. Twisting its torso midair, it thrust itself toward the goldfish. Dusty had began to panic when the osprey dove down, sinking its talons into the muskie. The raptor struggles with such a large fish and they become entangled, wrestling on the water’s surface. The muskie thrashd back and forth, using its long muscular body to throw the bird off its back. It worked and the osprey landed back first into the water. The muskie whipped around to sink its teeth into the mass of feathers, but the osprey quickly flipped over and leaped airborne out of the water to safety as the fish dove back into the abyss.

While Dusty had remembered to turn off his motor after retrieving his goldfish, the boat’s momentum continued over the water and the bow floated into an object with an echoing tap. He turned to see the game warden staring down at him like a pirate ready to take over a ship.

“Why do you have pet store stock in your boat?” he growled.

Dusty’s mind quickly thought of all sorts of things to say but none made a lick of sense. Taking them out for a joy ride. They needed fresh air and a change of scenery. They’re my emotional support animals.

“Well?” the warden asked again.

“They are fishing with me,” Dusty answered.

The warden looked around, not seeing any poles. He didn’t buy the story. “You okay, mister?”

“What do you mean?” Dusty asked confused.

“The sport of fishing doesn’t mean take your pet fish for a boat ride. Should I call someone for you?”

Realizing that the warden was concerned for his mental well-being, and his ticket out of trouble, he said, “Sure, that’d be great.”

Grabbing his radio from above the steering wheel, he asked, “Who should I have dispatch call for you?”

Dusty tried to decide which friend or family member would tease him the least.

“Actually, some friends are waiting for me at the launch. I don’t let them chew tobacco in my boat. Wouldn't want them to spit it into the lake. Don't want to introduce something non-native to the lake fish.”

Copyright 2018 Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Alternative Fishing Methods Part 2

Artwork Pixaby under Creative Commons License use

Sorry for the delay this week. This isn't true flash fiction; ran a little longer at 1500 words. 

Alternative Fishing Methods Part 2

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

A spontaneous camping trip with friends at a new campground, leaves no time to think about items other than essentials. Packing consisted of throwing together the tent, food, and other necessities ensuring nothing was forgotten. By the time everyone, including the family dog, is loaded up in the SUV and hit the highway, it's realized that fishing gear was not on the checklist.

Quinn tried reassuring himself he wouldn’t have time to fish because he’ll be doing all the campsite setup, and he isn’t familiar enough with the area to figure out the good fishing holes anyway. Even with these reasonable excuses, it does no good. Quinn drives, silently stewing about the what ifs as the kids banter back and forth about one thing or another.

He grips the steering wheel tighter in frustration while his foot pushes down harder on the gas pedal, increasing speed until their friends, who are following, honk their horn to get him to slow the hell back down.

“Why are you going so fast?” Quinn’s wife asks.

“No reason,” Quinn mumbles.

* * *

Arriving at the campground check-in lodge, the attendant informs them of the park’s rules, available facilities, hiking trails, and proximity near the river. As usual, the kids need to use the bathroom and want to eat and play because they are bored immediately upon exiting the car. Quinn is sent solo to the campsite.

With the company of Gus, the family’s golden retriever, Quinn does the grunt work of setting up the tent. He pulls out the bundle of dowels, aligning the ends of the sections together so that they form one large pole which he then feeds through strategically-placed pockets and loops in the canvas. He repeats the process as necessary and soon the tent pops up in its upside-down ice cream cone shape. With the rubber mallet, he pounds in the stakes, securing it to the ground.

Quinn takes a step back to rest when Gus looks at him with that “let’s go explore” look. Shrugging, Quinn agrees and the two trot out of the campsite.

Allowing Gus to take the lead, they walk down a dry dusty trail with dense shrubbery on either side. Quinn hears his kids playing in the distance indicating they have passed the playground, because he but is unsure of where they are headed. After all, this is a new place. Soon, the air begins to cool and mosquitos buzz and are quickly swatted away. Gus runs ahead wagging his tail to meet the steady stream of the river. Letting out a bark he splashes his paws into the water, waiting for his owner. Quinn catches up and greets Gus with a scratch behind the ears.

The river speaks its language. In the shallower spots, the water trickles and laps over the rocks, while in the deeper sections, the current creates a few white-capped rapids. Nothing for rafters to get excited about, but a reminder of the river’s power. A splash causes Quinn to whip his head in that direction. He is too late and only sees the circular ripples growing larger and larger as they hint of what created them. Quinn doesn’t need to observe it again to know that it was a leaping trout.

That the was the moment he regretted the spontaneity of the camping trip. An empty feeling sat in his soul, desperate for a pair of waders and a fishing rod. All the reasoning he did with himself on the drive was tossed aside. He now found a good fishing hole and can’t do a darn thing about it except enjoy the scenery. Folding his arms in disgust, he unknowingly grinds his teeth together with a crack.

Gus, being a dog, only saw the water for what it was: fun. He walked in further, finding a smooth flat rock under the surface to stand on. Something caught his eye and his ears perked up in a playful fashion. He dipped his head in the water swiftly and surfaced with something in his mouth, and proudly galloped over to Quinn, who continued sulking. Gus dropped a pink, wriggling slimy creature at Quinn’s feet and waited for praise.

Astonished, Quinn looked at the trout then his dog and back again, then broadened into a smile. “Good boy,” he said.

Gus panted, his tongue dangling out of his mouth and appeared to be smiling. He shifted his wet paws, the fur stuck to his legs making them look skinnier.

“Go get another,” Quinn said.

Gus spun around and returned to the river.

While the dog attended to the new fishing technique, Quinn grabbed a stone and put the trout out of its misery.

A few minutes later, Gus returned with another fish.

Giving the dog more praise, Quinn said, “Keep going, Gus.”

There was a bark of approval, before returning to the water.

As Quinn took care of the second trout, a voice behind him said, “You got a permit?”

It was a park ranger. Quinn quickly stood up.

“No. I’m not fishing.”

The ranger pointed to the set of fish on the ground. “How’d you get those?”

“My dog caught them.”

“Very funny. I’ll need to see some ID, please.”

Thumbing his ID out of his wallet, Quinn noticed a name patch that said Ranger Smith.

"Like I said, I'm not fishing. I don't even a rod on me."

“Where’s your net? Trot line? Those aren’t permitted either, you know.”

“There’s none. Look,” he pointed to Gus who stood on the rock scanning the water. “My dog is out there snagging fish.”

Gus thrust his head under water again, but came up empty.

Ranger Smith eyed Quinn suspiciously. “That’s a pretty wild story. Even if it were true, that’s not legal. I will need to confiscate these.”

As he bent down to gather the fish, Gus let out an unfriendly bark. “Your pooch friendly?” he asked.

“Usually,” said Quinn. “Say, can you show me in a rulebook or something that dogs catching fish is illegal?”

“Don’t matter. The trout are in your possession and you don’t have a proper license.”

“My dog brought them to me, yes, but I was just overseeing them while he went back to the river. I’d like to see the rule, please.”

Ranger Smith was annoyed, but Quinn’s request was reasonable enough. He pulled out a smartphone and opened an application.

He scrolled through screens of information, not finding what he was looking for. Dogs infringing on wildlife couldn’t possibly be acceptable, could it?

As Ranger Smith kept hunting through the digital content of his device, Gus came bounding back to with another catch. But this time he didn’t drop it at Quinn’s feet. Instead, his tail stopped wagging and he stood still with the fish between his teeth, eyeing the stranger. The two of them made eye contact and immediately disliked one another.

“Like I said,” Quinn went on, “my dog is catching the fish, not me.”

Frustrated, Ranger Smith ran his tongue over his teeth. 

“Dogs need to be on a leash at all times within the park,” he said.

“I left it at the campsite,” Quinn responded.

Swapping his smartphone for his ticket book, Ranger Smith scribbled onto a thick piece of paper. “Sign here,” he said, pointed to the dotted line. “Press hard, five copies.”

Quinn read the ticket which indicated he was in violation of the leash law. He signed his name, then Ranger Smith tore off his ticket copy and handed to him along with his identification.

“What did you find out about the fish?” Quinn asked, folding the ticket and placing it in his shirt pocket.

“I didn’t, but I’m going to have to take these with me—” he cut himself off when he gestured to the pile of trout. It was gone, and so was Gus. Neither had seen him leave, let alone with the catches.

“Where’s your dog?” Ranger Smith asked.

Quinn shrugged.

“I need to take those trout with me. Call your dog back.”

 Quinn called for Gus and the wet and dirty golden retriever came out from behind some shrubbery.

“Where are the fish?” Quinn asked.

Gus looked at him curiously.

“Show us.”

Gus sat down.

“Gus, where are the fish?”

Gus lay down and placed his head on his front paws.

Turning to Ranger Smith, Quinn said, “I can’t force him to take us anywhere.”

“What do you think your dog did with the fish?” 

“Buried them, I suspect. That’s what dogs do,” Quinn answered.

The ranger’s radio beeped and a dispatcher called out for assistance with a first aid emergency for a hiker. Reluctantly, he bid Quinn and Gus farewell with a leash law reminder, and left.

As soon as Ranger Smith was safely out of sight, Quinn asked of Gus, “Where are your trout?”

Gus hopped up, leading Quinn to a pile of rocks around a bend. Three rocks supported against one another, creating a cavity in the middle. Gus pawed at the hole. Quinn reached down to find the slimy scaled creatures, pulled them out one by one, and headed back to the campsite. There was no need to fret over forgotten fishing gear any longer.

Copyright 2018 Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Alternative Fishing Methods Part I

Image, Pixabay Creative Commons CC0

Alternative Fishing Methods Part I

Regulation Restrictions

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Imagine the Department of Fish and Wildlife (DFW) has suspended the spring salmon run because fish counts have dropped. Although, the DFW has agreed to allow catch and release, that nonsense is reserved for the sport of fly fishing. To make matters worse, the river originates in another state where fish counts are stable, even thriving. With no restrictions there, that state’s residents fish salmon to the extreme, lessening the number of them available downriver and out of state. What are fishermen, who have already purchased licenses and permits, to do?

Load up and go fishing anyway is a possibility, but poaching is generally frowned upon. Ax that option.

There’s fishing in neighboring state where it is still allowed. That means spending an exorbitant amount of money on out of state licenses and permits, transportation, and lodging. This normally wouldn’t matter except significant others must be consulted dooming this idea to ever evolve beyond a fantasy.

The final option is to pray for a miracle. This means a subconscious collaborative effort of the unhappy fishermen to dream up something along the lines of “please just make the salmon show up on my doorstep.” The fishermen go to sleep, all wishing for a miracle.

Morning comes and with it the normal routine, sans leaving for the river. Groggy fishermen listen to the news while sipping steaming coffee, waiting for the beverage to kickstart their day. They hear the reporter on television spat something about spring floods…river overflows…aquatic wildlife on roadways and fields. Snapping their heads to the screen is a video of a seemingly impossible scenario. Flapping their way over floodwaters are salmon, making a desperate attempt to return to their hatchery birthplace.

Running outside, the fishermen examine their front yards. As though a higher power has answered, floodwaters are everywhere and with it brings salmon, squirming and jumping their way through the fake river. Throwing on galoshes and waders, the flummoxed but excited fishermen dash out the door with nets in hand.

Technically, front yards aren’t the river, so DFW regulations can go out the window. The fish are swimming, no trespassing, on private property and now the fishermen must do whatever it takes to keep them from destroying it. After all, who knows what sort of damage a fish on land can do. Floodwater is of no concern, whatsoever; it will all dry out—eventually. But can you imagine the ruts in the grass cause by spawning salmon? Might as well have moles.

Sloshing through the marshy front yards, they scoop up the leaping salmon one by one in their nets. Once a sizable stack of fish has been collected, the fishermen trudge back into their homes. No photos are taken because the legality of this new-found fishing practice is questionable at minimum. The fish are quietly filleted, vacuum sealed, and placed in the freezer.

In the next few days, the floodwaters recede, the river returns to normal levels, and the land eventually dries back out. However, the fish count unexpectedly lowers again, and DFW continues the salmon fishing ban for the remainder of the season. The fishermen maintain their secrecy of their new, alternative workaround fishing method, happy the fish did in fact show up practically on their doorstep.