(Told by Buddy DeDog himself)

I was about a year and a half old, still young but already seasoned by the streets of Chicago’s South Side. April had rolled in, but don’t let the calendar fool you — the air still had that cold bite that made your paws stiff and your nose run. I was hungry. Not “I could eat” hungry. I mean hungry. The kind where your stomach sounds like a rusty engine trying to start.

That’s when I saw it.

A half‑eaten hot dog lying on the sidewalk like a gift from the food gods. Steam still rising. Ketchup glistening. A little dirt on the bun, but hey — I wasn’t picky. I lowered my head, ready to claim my prize, when a shadow swooped down like a feathery ninja.

A pigeon. A big pigeon. A pigeon so large I briefly wondered if it paid rent.

He landed right in front of me, puffed out his chest, and said — in perfect English, mind you — “Back off, mutt. I saw it first.”

I froze. Not because I was scared, but because I had never heard a pigeon talk before. I blinked. He blinked back. The hot dog sat between us like a treasure in some ancient prophecy.

“That’s mine,” I growled, trying to sound tough even though my voice cracked like a teenager’s.

The pigeon strutted closer. “Buddy, look at me. I’m starving. I’ve been flying all morning. My wings are tired. My feet are cold. And I’m pretty sure I have a sinus infection.”

“You don’t even have sinuses,” I snapped.

“Shows what you know,” he shot back.

We circled the hot dog like two gladiators in a parking‑lot coliseum. The wind whipped around us. A plastic bag rolled by dramatically. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm went off — probably for effect.

I made the first move. I lunged.

The pigeon flapped his giant wings, smacking me in the face like a feathery slap from the heavens. I stumbled but recovered quickly. I wasn’t about to lose to a bird with the attitude of a middle‑aged man arguing at a grocery store.

He pecked. I dodged. I snapped. He hopped. We danced the dance of destiny.

Finally, I saw my opening. The pigeon paused to yell at a passing squirrel — “Mind your business, Carl!” — and I dove in, grabbing the hot dog in one swift motion.

Victory.

The pigeon stared at me, offended. “Really? You’re gonna steal food from a hardworking bird?”

“You tried to steal it from me first,” I said through a mouthful of bun.

He sighed dramatically. “Fine. Enjoy your dirt dog, you four‑legged thief.”

And with that, he flew off — slowly, because he was definitely too big for the air.

I ate the hot dog. Every last crumb. And as I licked ketchup off my nose, I realized something important:

On the streets, you don’t just fight to survive. Sometimes… you fight pigeons.

©2023

BuddydeDog