Hector

He claimed the highest perch in the breeding loft and was, by far, the biggest pigeon in the flock. I named him Hector. A thick, puffed up ball of red feathers and testosterone made him stand out and was a gift from a leading fancier eager to improve the bloodlines of my rather lowly lot, some of whom were descendents of birds rescued from the local railway station stock. Poor company to the haughty racing thoroughbreds of the Queenstown pigeon club. Hector had only one leg and would stand balanced on a single pin. I often wondered whether he was gifted to me as a joke. Unfortunately he was no good at breeding as he kept falling off the hen before he had the chance to mate. It seems pigeons need both legs to balance long enough to conclude the act and poor Hector would always topple off too soon. He found no outlet for his lust and added no royalty to the genes of my rather peasant flock. Before I reached my teens, interest in pigeons had waned and the few short years of racing them came to a close. By then Hector had escaped carrying his frustrations and pedigree off into the blue. Much to the chagrin of the local racing elite, a small, scruffy hen, part progeny of the railway station stock, had scored a number of prestigious wins. The club was glad to see me go and my name somehow quickly fell from the honor wall like Hector off a hen.