Some days you don't even have to leave the house to have major excitement. Some days, all you have to do is take a shower. Like today, when I returned to the living room after my morning shower, to find everythin--serene and still. I puttered around for a few minutes, then headed back to the bathroom.

As I passed my room, there was a rustle of unfamiliar noise. Almost like there was something (cue suspense music) alive in there. (I don't have any pets. I have a couple of plants in my room but they've shown no previous inclination to move about unassisted and if they're going to take to doing so, they're going to have to go.)

Bravely, I peeked into the room (the first person to investigate the strange noise from the ostensibly empty room always bites the dust ten seconds later in any decent horror flick), only to spy a bird sitting on my desk chair.

How, you might ask, did a bird get into my bedroom? I have no idea. The window was closed and in any case there's a sturdy screen on it. The sliding glass door in the living room was open, but the screen door was closed. I'd been in the shower and the R.C. was off in her room. Short of the idea that the bird opened the door for itself, it's a mystery.

And yet, there it was. Unmistakeably, a bird. A pigeon, in fact. A fairly young one, too. Sitting on the desk chair in my room, probably the farthest spot from the living room door in the entire apartment.

I recruited the R.C.'s assistance and began shooing the bird toward the (now open) screen door in the living room.

This took some doing. The animal wasn't as skittish as one might expect a wild bird, finding itself trapped inside a small apartment with two hostile inhabitants, to be. I shooed. It left the chair to batter itself against the closed window. I shooed. It fluttered to the floor near the corner. I shooed. It ran away on little pigeon feet. I shooed. It finally found the hallway. I shooed. It ran to the corner. I shooed. It flapped heavily to the top of a decorative screen. I shooed. It found the living room and the door and sailed out to rest on the balcony railing.

And then it stayed there. Sitting on the balcony railing. Watching me. It looked at me out of one beady, little eye. It turned its head and ogled me out of the other beady, little eye. It hunkered down and peered fixedly. It sidled up and down the railing, watching me from different angles.

Persecution, that's what I call it.

I made abusive remarks. I objected strenously to the attention. I went onto the balcony, lit a cigarette, and explained to it the difference between my living space and the great outdoors. It listened with a certain amount of attention but seemed unconvinced. It showed no concern, even when I stood a foot away and took a picture of it.

For the next 40 minutes, it divided its attention between me and the sporadic activity in the parking lot. It just kept looking at me, as if wondering why I didn't open the door up and let it back in. Yes, eventually it took itself elsewhere, but I still maintain it was persecuting me, by sitting there, staring at me that way.

Also, it occurred to me that if this was a horror flick, when I went outside to reason with it, those little pigeon eyes would have started to glow red, that sharp beak would have burst into a four-foot spear, and it would have eaten me up.

Aside from that, not much new today.