Zebra Doves

A bemused reflection on the pretty suburban alternative to the humble pigeon.

Over the past week, we have been watching a pair of zebra doves try and fail to build a nest. They have chosen the narrow ledge of the supporting column of our outside porch — it’s probably 5cm wide and skirts a sharp corner leaving it woefully exposed to the elements and our bemused derision from the sofa.

If you don’t know, zebra doves are small, starling-sized birds, so called for the thinly striated feathers that span their chest, shoulders and belly. They have wings the colour of dried mud and necks and heads a pale, duck egg blue. They are incredibly tame, inquisitive and apparently alert, blinking their bright eyes in fresh astonishment as they turn in circles when gathered in small flocks.

We have resident ‘pervy pigeons’ — settlers to our bathroom ledge who cock a curious eye through the fly screen whenever we shower. On the shelf of our downstairs loo, the tables are turned and it is we who unwillingly perv on their butts as one mum has successfully raised her two offspring on our window ledge:

Success — yay!

Not known for their intelligence, Google tells me they have adapted well to urban environments. Some have; others, not so much.

Watching the nest builders on the narrow ledge last week, their method was as follows:

• She sits on some already gathered twigs.

• He flies off to find another.

• He comes back with said twig and places it down: sometimes on her; sometimes on the ‘nest’ — a ragtag collection of other dumped twigs; sometimes it overbalances on the narrow ledge and falls to the floor.

• He sits on her. Yeah… it’s not quite what you think. He sits on her head, he sits on her back facing her rear-end; rarely, if ever, does he sit on her to mate. She seems to put up with it, albeit in a resigned kind of way, attempting to maintain her dignity as he tramples around on top of her, often in circles, like a dog making his bed. (I have Monty Python’s Michael Palin in my head from The Holy Grail, covered in shit, yelling, ‘Help! I’m being oppressed!’ But that’s just me projecting.)

Occasionally, he’ll shuffle about or overbalance the twigs so much that all the already assembled kerplunk of sticks — I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a nest, as that implies some sort of skill in weaving them together — falls to the ground in a sad pronouncement of failure: the steps to our house are adorned with tiny kindling. It’s always a weary non-surprise returning from an errand, or work, or a dog walk to find the steps covered in a fresh sprinkling of strewn thatch. Still, at least then he hasn’t as far to fly to gather the twigs.

And so it begins again: down and up, coo, sit on her head, drop a twig, collect another, deposit — whoops! — reverse cowboy, trample her a bit more, swoop, collect, grow the collection; oh dear, whoops again….

Watching this farcical routine, our morning conversations have gone something like this:

    He’s sitting on her again.
    Are you sure they’re not mating?
    No, he’s just sitting on her - and now on her head.
    Oo, he’s getting more twigs - they might make it this time…!
          Pause.
    Nope. 
          Sigh.
    He’s just dropped them all. Again.
  	  Pause. Watching antics a while longer.
    Zebra doves are nice, but they’re not very clever.
    It’s a wonder they’re surviving at all as a species.

And so the conversation repeats.

If I thought they could read, I’d give them a copy of the Myth of Sisyphus.

It’s been amusing, but a little disheartening: our personal ornithological alternative to the world cup. Similar emotions. Different species. But then on Saturday as we were leaving to go out to dinner, my daughter let out a dejected sigh. Thinking she meant only the twigs, we laughed at their ineptness as we walked past the fallen ‘nest’ on the floor, larger now than it had been all week. Then as I glanced at the twigs, I realised what she meant: a shattered egg lay splattered across the steps, the pale yolk smeared amongst translucent embryonic fluids and shards of broken shell, startlingly glossy and white. Small and sad amongst the scattered spray of twigs. An all too familiar sight in more ways than one.

Oh dear.

Looking up, the doves had gone and they haven’t been back since. Has she given up on her mate? Or have they tried for a new, more substantial nesting place?

And I was reminded, briefly, of when Joe and I, newly pregnant, spectacularly lost at a pub quiz. Our consolation prize? A pack of condoms. The host handed them to us pleading, ‘Don’t’ breed!!’

When we returned later that night, one of our dogs must have licked up the fallen egg as the step was wiped clean.

How not to mate….

How not to build a nest….