I am sitting outside the Metro Toronto Convention Centre, having a quick Polish Sausage for lunch in a nice treed Park area. In front of me, walking around observing me in one lone scruffy pigeon. He’s not a pretty one at all, multi coloured in no set pattern, and with feathers ruffled like he’s just list a fight.

He is a scout. He knows I am eating, and he’s here to get the first drop and alert his team, sitting nearby in the shade.

I toss a bun scrap, and before I can say rumpkestilskin, 21 other pigeons have decended. They know, nobody throws one bun scrap. Feeding pigeons is too much fun to do just once.

I notice none of them are very pretty, unlike some if the ones I feed more up town, which makes me chuckle a bit. Downtown is lower class for bird and man alike.

Each one grabs a piece of bun, and flings it wildly to rip his bit off, throwing the remaining bun 4 feet one direction or another, and then another repeats the process. Pigeons without food try desperately to guess where the next piece will be flying, but with little success. It’s a luck game, and some are faster than others.

When the last of the bun is thrown, I clap my hands and say; “all done”, which is a phrase I trained my dog to understand. They seemed content too, and surprising quickly all retreated to their shade resting places.

One lone scruffy pigeon remains, scouting, but with less interest now, because I’m writing this on my phone, not eating. He is still watching, but with less glaring eyes.

I am tempted to see if they return if I merely gestures a fake food throw, but I decide not to be mean.