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home : opinions : opinions July 27, 2015

1/16/2013 9:22:00 AM
The life and death of my friend Whitey

Matt Santos

The circle of life.

Don't worry, I'm not going to break into a Lion King song, but the gist of that tune came to my doorstep this weekend...literally.

Let's back up a little. First off, some of you know my background. I'm a city boy at heart. Never hunted and did very little camping (the little bit I have done involved being broke down on the highway and sleeping in the front seat of a Toyota).

My idea of roughing it means no cell coverage.

So, for this glass and concrete guy, death in the wild is not an everyday thing.

Several weeks ago, as I was locking up the office for the night, I glanced up to see a beautiful white bird perched on the roof of the Review building. I was startled at first, since it was after midnight and some of you might remember the Great Bat Attack of August 2012 (I still haven't fully recovered, but thanks for asking).

When I stopped screaming and climbed out from behind the bushes, I realized it was in fact a dove. He didn't move, just sat there looking at me. We stared at each other for a while, and then I loaded the car and went home.

Several nights a week, I wrap up late night or early morning, and since that first meeting, each night when I'm leaving, Whitey has been there waiting for me.

It got to be a sort of ritual. He and I (I think he was a he, we never took a steam together or anything, so I'm just guessing here), saying our goodbyes each night. He bidding me a safe trip home, I hoping he wouldn't poop on my head.

And so it went, until tragedy struck.

Whitey is no more.

On Sunday morning, when I came in to work, I saw what I thought was frost or a little lingering snow in the bushes in front of my office door. On closer inspection, it was in fact poor Whitey.

It was clear he was the victim of foul (fowl?) play. Sorry, couldn't resist.

Sure, I know these things happen, but you never think it will happen to someone you know.

There is no mystery; the perp was still at the scene. A hawk, at least I think it was a hawk - the only birds I can readily identify are chickens and turkeys. Chickens usually wear a red and white bucket, turkeys live in a large roasting pan.

Come to think of it, Whitey may not have been a dove, for all I know he may have been a pigeon in need of a tan or a crow with a pigmentation condition.

Anyway, the hawk-type individual was just sitting there, munching away on poor Whitey.

No remorse, no guilt, just hunger.

Deep, disturbed, serial killer hunger.

I know this is nature, a cycle that needs to run so life can go on, but for me, nature is best viewed from a distance.

My biggest worry is that Dominique (after all, Dominique Wilkins was one of the greatest Hawks of all time) has gotten the taste for flesh.

And I'm flesh.

Lots of flesh.

So, Chief Wynn, if one Monday morning I don't show up for work, be on the lookout for Dominique - he's brown, covered in feathers, and he's a killer.

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