Dave the Pigeon

Here now, I find myself in a most peculiar predicament, having spent the weekend in Virginia City, and–odd as it may sound–nothing happened. That’s right, absolutely nothing. There was not a bit of excitement, no ruckus’, not even a tumbleweed rolling down C Stree to liven up the place. You might think that a newspaperman, a man whose livelihood depends on the constant churn of drama and spectacle, would find something–anything–of note to report. But I’ll be dogged if there’s a single scrap of real news to scribble down.

Now, I’ll admit I was more than a little disappointed. In a town like Virginia City, where the echoes of miners and gamblers still seem to drift like cigar smoke, you’d think something would shake loose, like an old ghost hankerin’ for trouble. But no. It was as if the whole place had decided to nap, and I, being the fool who’d arrived expecting a show, got to watch as the dust settled in the empty streets.

There were no shootouts, saloon brawls, or even a stray dog yapping. People walked about in the usual leisurely fashion, nodding politely to one another, and that was the extent of it. If you want to call that a “happening,” I suppose you can, but I prefer to think of it as a snooze fest with good whiskey.

So, I’m sitting in front of my keyboard, trying to find anything to write about. And then, like a bolt out of the blue, a little feathered fellow decides to make his grand entrance. I’m not one to make a big fuss over birds, but this one–this particular pigeon–was a sight to behold. Dave, I call him. No one told me his name, but I’m sure of it. I’ve seen him around enough now to know he’s a regular. Where he’s from or what he’s doing here–that’s a mystery to me. But I do have my theories.

Dave didn’t just flutter in like any ordinary bird, no sir. He arrived somewhere east of here–might’ve even been Como–might’ve been further still–and made his way down C Street. I’ve seen many a-creature brave the streets but none as Dave the Pigeon. The traffic’s wild here, mind you. Not the kind of horse-drawn buggies you’d expect from the old-time days, but folks in motorcars, zipping up and down like they’re racing at Daytona. And the foot traffic–Lord, save us, it’s a wonder anyone survives it. But not Dave. He sails through the madness unscathed like he’d been doing it his whole life. I have half a mind to follow him, just to see where he’d end up, but I don’t want myself mistaken as a bird watcher of ill repute.

The strange thing about Dave, aside from his impeccable street-crossing skills, is that he’s been here for days and says not one word. Sure, he coos, mind you, but not a single squawk or call that might suggest he’s a bird of grand ideas or ambition. He seems to be the picture of contentment, as though life here in Virginia City is the very definition of peace and satisfaction.

I tell you, I envy the fellow. Here I am, struggling to fill a column with some semblance of excitement, while Dave’s concern appears to be finding a cozy perch and enjoying the crisp mountain air. Perhaps he’s just that wise to know the best thing to do with one’s time–simply put, nothing. Or maybe he’s got some secret I’m missing–a magic formula for contentment and all the talk in the world can’t touch.

I’ll be honest with you. I’ve spent a good deal watching that pigeon. Not in any creepy, stalkerish way, mind you, but in a way, one might admire a man who knows how to live an easy life. Dave’s secret to life, I think, lies in his utter lack of concern. And maybe that’s the one thing Virginia City could use a little more these days.

So, what’s a newspaperman to do when nothing is happening? Perhaps it is time to put down the pen and learn from the pigeon. If nothing else, Dave the Pigeon has given me the most salient piece of wisdom I’ve had in a long while: sometimes, nothing is what you need.

Please excuse me, but I think I’ll sit on a bench, let my feet dangle, and see if I can’t coax a little coo myself from Dave.