AMID the doom-filled headlines screaming at me from the shelves of my local newsagent the other day, the latest issue of Racing Pigeon was an even more welcome sight than usual, writes Frank McNally
In a turbulent world, there is something reassuring about a magazine devoted to men writing affectionately of, and posing unselfconsciously for pictures with, their birds. "Fanciers" they call themselves, which says it all.
This is a love that dares to speak its name. And no matter how bad things are on Wall Street, they can still eulogise their feathered heroes in poetic terms. Here are just three descriptions of pigeons taken from the latest issue: "legend", "genius", and (I swear) "Claudia Schiffer"; of whom more later.
But there is trouble everywhere these days and even the pigeon loft is not immune. The gentle cooing that dominates RP's coverage is disturbed this week by a headline on page 40: "Five Days of Torture".
The writer details a horror story that began when he visited his loft one morning and found several headless corpses. All had been "decapitated at the base of their necks". He also found a blood-stained hole where the mystery killer had entered the shed; and he blocked it.
But the next day another batch of victims had been guillotined and another hole found. This was a serial killer now. So the distraught fancier set a trap, baited with chicken. No use. The invisible fiend took the chicken, dodged the trap, and decapitated again.
More traps were set. More pigeons lost their heads. This time the killer squeezed in and out under a door. The "monster" was sapping the loft-owner's will: "If I had been able, I would have waved the white flag and surrendered." Instead, friends brought him yet another trap. And on the fifth day of this reign of terror, the cage was found to contain a "small female polecat".
Despite the name, polecats are members of the weasel family. So much for the idea that setting a cat among them is the worst thing you can do to pigeons. The story's other irony is that among the polecat's distinguishing marks is a black "bandit mask" around the eyes. So although it was a surprise villain in this case, in a line-up of wildlife suspects, you would pick it out every time.
The serial killer apart, RP is dominated as usual by good news. The superlatives mentioned earlier are all used in relation to one former giant of the sport: a pigeon with the ungainly name of "Super Crack".
Originally believed to be a hen, Super Crack was later - and I'll quote directly from the article here - "found to be a cock of small proportions". Despite this, and lacking pedigree, it came to be regarded as a "legend", first for its own racing abilities and later for its breeding.
The careers overlapped, movingly. In one race, Super Crack finished second, beaten only "by his son" - which must have been an emotional moment for both of them.
How pigeons procreate is a mystery to non-fanciers. And yet, as a visit to Trafalgar Square confirms, they certainly do. Super Crack's many daughters include the aforementioned Claudia Schiffer, a star in her own right. And his various descendants are estimated to be winning races in "48 countries".
THE WORST thing about exposure to Racing Pigeon is that it reduces your options in French restaurants. It doesn't matter how they dress the dish up — "pigeonnau fermier roti aux épices douces" — you'd still feel like Hannibal Lecter for eating it. It might not be the son or daughter of a champion, but it could easily be a cousin.
Whereas, I was in a restaurant called La Mère Zou the other day and when they suggested the special - "rabbit stew" - I agreed with only slight reservations. Very good it was, too. It could have been chicken, if you ignored the strange bone formations - something my lunch partner did by averting her eyes.
People are funny about which animals they won't eat. For many, it's the pet thing - which (combined with myxomatosis) must explain why rabbit ever disappeared from Irish menus. For me, it's sporting ability. I couldn't eat a horse, however hungry I was, nor a greyhound. At least with rabbits, you know their only notable athletic talent is the one pursued by Super Crack in the latter part of his career. Perhaps when the recession bites, we will all be eating rabbit again. Squirrel too. Maybe pigeons won't be safe either.
I'm reminded of P.J. O'Rourke's story about a salesman who is invited to stay for dinner at a farmhouse and notices with astonishment that the family is also joined at table by a pet pig, wearing three medals and a wooden leg. Seeing his surprise, the farmer explains that this is no ordinary pig.
"You see those medals? Well the first is from when our baby son fell into the pond and that pig dove in and saved his life. The second is when our little daughter was trapped in a burning barn and the pig ran through the flames and carried her out.
"And the third medal, that's from when our oldest boy was cornered in the stockyard by a bull, and that pig ran under the fence, bit the bull's tail and saved the boy."
The salesman is impressed. "I can see why you let a pig like that sit at the table," he says. "But how did he get the wooden leg?"
"Well," explains the farmer, "a pig like that - you don't eat him all at once."
fmcnally@irish-times.ie