The Perch Protest, or Woman vs. Dove

Yesterday evening, I decided it was time to bite the bullet and make the necessary change. With the solemn resolve of a parent trying to get their kid to eat spinach, I carried the wooden branch into my studio. It was long past time to swap out the metal perch my white-winged dove, Oliver, was accustomed to. For too long, he had sat upon it for hours, a gleaming runway that did absolutely nothing but encourage his nails to grow into impressive scimitars. A single nail-trimming by the vet a couple of months ago had been traumatic for both of us. We needed a better, more natural solution.

So I selected a wooden branch from the garden — sturdy, honest, pleasingly irregular. During Oliver’s Free Flight time in my studio, I installed it with care.

Oliver was horrified and refused to fly back into his cage when playtime was over. I had to chase him while he did loop-de-loops around my head. Once he finally landed on my office chair, I caught him and put him in his cage. Not an optimal way to do it, but it had to be done.

He jumped immediately into his feed cup, folded his wings around himself like a wronged prince, and sat there in a rigid, offended lump of feathers. From that lofty throne, he cast sidelong glances at the branch, as one might regard a suspicious relative who arrived uninvited.

Then came the seed-throwing.

Not aimless scattering — no, this was purposeful, vigorous flinging, accompanied by tiny huffs of breath and quick, sharp head movements. If Oliver had possessed a picket sign, he would have marched. As it stood, he delivered his grievances in the form of millet confetti.

I watched him with growing anxiety. He watched me with increasing annoyance. It was clear we were locked in a battle of wills.

Unable to decide whether I was ruining his life or merely inconveniencing him, I sought counsel. All evening, I sent increasingly panicked messages to my friend — an expert in doves and, by this point, something of a field therapist for their human companions. Each time I reported Oliver's latest act of civil disobedience, she responded with calm, maddening confidence: “He’s fine. Don’t cave. He’s throwing a tantrum; don’t reward it.”

It sounded sensible enough in theory. In practice, ignoring Oliver’s obvious unhappiness was much harder to do.

Hours passed. Oliver remained in his feed cup, glaring at me. At times, he moved to the grit cup—proof positive he was not actually starving, only maintaining a dramatic position.

I nearly gave in. But I had been warned: undoing the change would only teach my dove that all future furniture decisions were subject to the Dove Veto.

So I sat tight. Oliver sulked. My friend encouraged me to breathe. Oliver threw seeds. My friend told me to wait. Oliver glared. I waited.

Then, fifteen hours after the affair began — sometime in mid-morning, when I had stepped out of my studio to get a cup of coffee — he made his choice.

He stepped onto the wooden perch. When I came back into the room, Oliver was sitting there, as if it were the natural resting place of any self-respecting dove. He settled his feathers, looked straight ahead, and gave no indication whatsoever that the previous night’s theatrics had taken place.

Thus ended The Perch Protest.

Living with a dove requires a certain stamina; a willingness to endure small dramas and tiny tempests. But it also brings moments of sudden grace, like watching him finally accept the branch he had rejected with such passion.

As for me, I learned something too: never underestimate the stubbornness of a dove, nor the value of a good and wise friend who can assure you, again and again, that everything is going to be all right.

Pictures: 1. Oliver boycotting the perch. 2. Oliver accepting the perch.