The Dove

There was a dove. One day it came walking over the gravel of the campsite towards me. As I was eating a piece of baguette (‘stick bread’ as the Dutch aptly call it, in appreciation of the shape as well as the texture) I threw some crumbs to the bird. It ate well and looked completely at ease with me. After a while, it even took the bread right out of my hands without flinching. It looked dozy and poorly, but I had hopes for its recovery and christened the poor bugger Lazarus. I even sang to it. I sang: “Lazarus dansar i Rotterdam, hei, en så lustiger dans!”

Every day, the bird would come crawling out of the bushes or from underneath my car. It grew weaker though, ate less, dozed off all of the time and wanted most of all to sleep in peace. It became more and more depending on me, for food and water, but mostly for protection. When I fed it, some of the other doves would come and, given the chance, would peck Lazarus ferociously in its neck. I threw little stones at them to chase them away. (I knew it was ridiculous and contra-evolutionary and would bring me closer to hugging abused horses in the streets while breaking down in tears… but the bird had chosen me, so what could I do?)

During the day, it sought shelter and when I came to my tent it stepped towards me for bread and peace and sat underneath my chair while I made watercolours. But she (I renamed her Suzanne when her chances looked waning) grew weaker & weaker. Then she stopped eating at all and just sat there sleeping, sometimes opening an eye to see what I was doing, or when other doves would scream at her. Next day she didn’t show up and I never saw her again. No more dansar i Rotterdam.