Wisdom from a Dove

by Cortney Philip

Happy News Citizen Journalist

One of the only perks of living in my boxlike apartment is sitting on the largest balcony I've ever had the privilege of renting. Of my less-than-600 square feet of personal space, a generous 20 is devoted exclusively to my private balcony. I couldn't imagine summertime without a balcony, and this one certainly helps when my inadequate air conditioner only feels like cooling the space directly in front of it.

About three weeks ago, an ambitious pair of mourning doves built a nest in the scraggly tree that shades my balcony. I made them nervous, sitting right at eye level across from their chosen brooding home, but they persisted under my curious gaze. "That's a terrible place to make a nest," I lamented to my roommate later that night, but I made a pile of dried evergreen needles on the corner of my balcony just in case they needed some assistance.

The nest the happy dove couple ended up with didn't seem strong enough to last, and I worried about the storm system moving in. I went out into the rain frequently to check up on them, but the mama dove just sat as rain poured over her tiny head, determined to keep her little eggs warm and dry. Actually, it could have been the papa dove, but I can't tell them apart because I never see them together.

Unlike many humans, mourning doves mate for the whole season and take turns sitting on the nest and feeding the young. After seeing these two huddled through storms and my frightfully loud air conditioner that spits hot air right at their nest, I don't worry so much about my relationship. If they can build a nest and lay eggs in a half-dead tree through bad weather and my babbling at them, my relationship problems seem trivial by comparison.

When mourning doves reproduce, the female lays two eggs every time. Mourning doves can have up to three broods every year, but they always just lay two eggs. There's something beautiful and simple in that. No matter how precarious the nest or how bad the storms get, the mama dove knows the outcome ahead of time.

I can't help but be a bit inspired by that instinctive faith in the universe. When I look around, my nest seems precarious, too. And I definitively see storms on the horizon. If the mourning doves can put their trust in the natural way of things and expect a happy outcome, why can't I go to grad school and get another useless degree? Why can't I just expect things to turn out the way they should, even if I can't count my unhatched eggs before they're laid?

When I look at those doves, it breaks my heart to know that in Michigan and 40 other states, mourning doves are legal game. All it takes to shoot the kin of one of my feathered friends is a small game license and a two-dollar stamp.

It takes two to four mourning doves to make an adequate dinner, and Michigan has four million of the U.S.'s 400 million mourning doves. According to "Mourning doves are now fair game" by Free Press writer Eric Sharp, "Hunters kill an estimated 25 million doves a year in the United States, about 5 to 8 percent of the population. Biologists say that figure is insignificant in light of doves' natural mortality rate, which ranges from 30 percent to 40 percent annually."

In Michigan, however, only the six southernmost counties along the Ohio and Indiana borders allow hunting of doves, and I smile to think that my doves picked an alright place after all. Mortality statistics being what they are, my doves are doing everything they can to beat the odds of untimely demise.

That's a life lesson we could all use. When statistics seem stacked against us, we might as well rely on luck or instincts to land in a place that might look tough but could always be a whole lot worse.

This story was produced by a Happynews Citizen Journalist.

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