Till hungry cats do us apart

If the expression on the left isn't one of pure, unconditional, fatherly love, then I wanna know what love is*

I see these guys every day as I walk the kids to school, and I must say that they are a ray of sunshine, in an otherwise bleak and depressing portion of north Dublin suburbia (referred to in other blips as Knackeragua, also called "home" whenever Mrs Raheny is not listening)

A nd P breed and train and cajole and transport and release and love homing pigeons. They love to see them fly off, they love to witness their return home even more.

Their hobby of choice may seem odd at first but I am beginning to grasp what makes it so thrilling. It is the right blend of dream and uncertainty. Every day there is the renewed apprehension of not seeing all their babies return. And in equal opposite measure, the quick they get with the return of each of them.
It must be a warm feeling in the pit of the stomach to get the daily confirmation that:
a- Your pets love you
b- They are prepared to cover some pretty long distances to come back to you. Flying over the green green grass of County Kildare but opting instead to come back to Kilbarrack, of all places...

How many cats would do that? I have seen cats switching homes and allegiance on culinary grounds, depending on what sort of food the neighbours have to offer.
My friend Natasha was peeved to say the least when she found out that her Clarence was also known as "Socks" three doors down the road, upon realising that the people from no. 43 also thought that he was "their" cat.

Breeding homing pigeons is also a brilliant way of exercising one's imagination, in an age when televised karaoke is the height of mass entertainment. I know for sure than A spends his days flying in dream alongside his feathered friends, way up in the Irish skies, looking down on the little fields and villages and football fields below.

These guys have a passion, I see the evidence of it day in day out. Every morning the pigeons are transferred with tender loving care from their wicker basket to their special trailer behind the white Hiace van. Each in their little pigeon hole (how aptly named!)

Today they were driven by P to the Curragh (about 40 miles from Skangerland) to be released. That's 40 miles in a straight line, as flown by a pigeon. And 36 miles for a Hiace van. These guys know short cuts that no other creature knows about, and they are not to bothered with one way streets, red lights or right of way). And I'm sure that A was with them in thoughts all along the way.

My life is not quite as exciting as theirs. I do of course, practice the release of a few homing e-mails every day: I forward problem e-mails addressed to me as far as I possibly can, and watch them progressively get back to me via Mumbai, Warsaw and Zilina, with more people on CC at each stage.
But it lacks in the poetry of a wickers basket or a Hiace van. Or the good-natured enthusiasm of A and P (not their real initials, to be on the safe side of safe).

PS: it is now safe to fly, not just for homing pigeons



* Oh bollix, that 1984 gem from power-ballad specialists Foreigner is going to pollute the rest of my day, and play in a loop in the back ground, in that area of the brain dedicated to shite-songs-you'd-rather-not-admit-to-knowing-but-cannot-help-but-hum