Animal Crackers
Our neighbour’s garden, on the other hand, seemed to be flocked with birds and we realised that this was because he had a formidable array of bird-baths, bird-feeders and other bird mod cons. Hence the discovery of greaseballs which, for the uninitiated, are spheres made up of sundry seeds all bound together with some kind of fat. The theory is that their attraction to birds outweighs the disadvantage of skidding on the path where the sun has melted them. The effect has been to bring in a lot of smaller birds but not to deter the pigeons.
Although not serious bird-spotters, we have, as I say, become familiar with the visiting pigeons – although their familiarity with us is more of the kind that breeds contempt. As a result, we have been struck by how different French pigeons are from British ones.
The prototype of the British town pigeon is to be found among the tourists in Trafalgar Square. They are scrawny and scruffy, a bit spiv-like in appearance, cock-sure (and no doubt hen-sure too in these egalitarian days) and decidedly pushy. They coerce rather than cajole people to feed them.
French urban pigeons, on the other hand, are sleek and well-groomed. They frequent gardens that are well provided with nut and seed dispensers – not because they can eat from them, but because they have become adept at picking up all the bits the smaller birds let fall. Such gardens are a magnet for cats, though the pigeons are better at evasion than their tinier cousins. (One wonders if UK cats have come to recognise houses bearing RSPB stickers.) Compared with their British counterparts, French town pigeons are for the most part well-behaved, although they tend to be queue-jumpers, shouldering aside all smaller birds.
Sociologically, French urban pigeons might be seen as exemplars of welfare dependency. British ones, however, seem to have taught today’s aggressive beggars all they know. Those who dislike either variety can comfort themselves with Tom Lehrer’s dictum: ‘It’s not against any religion to want to dispose of a pigeon’.
I don’t know whether similar differences apply to rural pigeons – it’s so difficult to make direct comparisons – but certainly they do to the ones in shops. For reasons I’ve never understood, French shops seems to be prohibited from selling dead wild creatures. Hence what you find is the result of rearing in confinement or by élevage, as we say here. Consequently, French pigeons for the table are bigger and fatter than British ones, proportionately more expensive and, in common with so many products of élevage, relatively bland in flavour. In contrast, your British pigeon makes up in delicious gaminess for what it lacks in weight and volume.
However, to return to the issue of bird-feeders, I was struck on a recent visit to a garden centre by how démodé greaseballs have become – that is to say what one might call the common or garden greaseball. Now the discerning bird-feeder can choose from a range of greaseballs, scientifically devised to appeal to different avian palates. Some, for example, contain selected varieties of insects and spiders. More than that, I was impressed to see shelves full of plastic dishes of different kinds of pâté covered with shrink-wrap. Yes, ready meals for birds. One has become accustomed to seeing huge ranges of canned foods of ever-wider taste sensations for dogs and cats, but surely extending the idea to birds is something new?
Of course, French cats and dogs are different from those in Britain, too. They behave differently: British cats brandish their tails only when angry; French cats apparently do so when they are pleased, purring the while. They are also treated differently, a fact that gives the lie to the notion that only the British are mad about their pets. In France, you have only to check your Yellow Pages to find that dog beauty parlours in most places exceed in number bookshops, fishmongers and sometimes even bakers and alimentations. Equipped with hairdressers, manicurists and, in all probability, personal trainers, such establishments clearly do a roaring trade. Their prices, as displayed, for canine care and coiffure rise from the only slightly painful at, say, the Chihuahua level to the vertiginous heights of the largest breeds, whose upkeep might require a second mortgage.
Another important difference between the French and British members of the animal kingdom is the noises they make. I’m inclined to agree that a French rooster crowing cocurico is more convincing than the notion that a British one says cock-a-doodle-do. But what about dogs? Is ouah-ouah any more like how dogs bark than bow-wow? If pressed for an opinion I’d have to say that I’m a woof man myself. Other animals seem to have fewer linguistic barriers. A French sheep would probably interpret baa as simply bé, with a foreign accent. Similarly a British cow might have little difficulty in understanding that meuh is the same as moo, but with the lips pushed out in the Gallic manner.
Even cats could probably interchange miau and meow fairly easily. Purring, though, is another matter. British cats purr, certainly, but the dictionary has no word for what that actually sounds like. In contrast, French ones ronronner to make ronron, which seems to have that right note as of a low-powered diesel engine.
Since no one seems, beyond the rather feeble tweet, to have bothered to write down birdsong for the reader, other than in musical notation, we shall probably never know whether, as the hymnist Isaac Watts assures us, birds in their little nests agree when it comes to conversation. All we can say with any certainty is that they agree on the subject of greaseballs – although our visitors seem to be getting pickier about them. Perhaps our neighbour has started serving the gourmet versions.
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This article first appeared in the March 2007 issue of The Connexion, the newspaper for English-speakers in France. To order a free trial copy of The Connexion click here.
