The object of her affection....

Apparently, I have become the object of Debbie's affection.

Debbie is my pet pigeon. She lives at my school. I acquired her several years ago....well, it's a long story.

Our school seems to attract a fair amount of animal life. We are set back from the highway, and the back of our building faces a pond and a large open space. Woodland creatures are always paying a visit. Ducklings and snapping turtles have hatched on our property. We have several nests that are used by mommy robins each spring. Deer eat our bushes. I've found mice and weasels in the strangest of places. A snake once took a sunbath in my classroom.

One summer day a few years ago, we discovered an injured pigeon within our fenced playground. This was not just any pigeon - he was long, sleek and white, nothing like the urban pigeons my husband refers to as "rats with wings." He was, however, sporting an injured wing, and it didn't look like he would be able to fly at all.

Being who we are (frankly, mildly insane) we scooped him into a laundry basket and carried him into the school.

This pigeon also had a band around his foot, indicating that he was a racing pigeon. Through the miracle of the Internet, we were able to track down his owner, call him and report finding his pigeon. He showed up late in the afternoon to retrieve his bird.

In the span of just a few hours, I became very attached to this broken guy. We've been over this before...I have a thing about animals.

So, by the time the owner showed up, I had convinced myself that, since this pigeon's racing career was obviously at an end, he was likely a candidate for pigeon euthanasia.

I voiced my concern to his owner.

"Can't we just keep him?" I asked. "He obviously can't fly anymore."

The owner's response is made more dramatic if you say it with a heavy Russian accent.

"Oh no, this bird, he can fly."

I was incredulous, images of my new pigeon friend having his neck wrung the instant he was taken from the building filling my little brain.

The owner continued.

"If you want bird, I get you bird."

And that, I thought, was the end of it.

A few weeks later, however, a woman came to the door of our school carrying nothing but a cardboard box.

With the same Russian accent, she announced "Here is your bird," put the box into my arms and promptly drove away.

With no idea how to care for a bird, I opened the box to reveal a puffed up and angry looking - chicken? This looked like no pigeon I had ever seen.

We promptly named her Debbie, and I set about learning how to take care of her. It took weeks to discover what she liked to eat, and months before I was able to open her cage without her puffing up and attempting to swat me with her wing. But I persisted, and eventually, she let me hold her.

Little did I know that all of that would pay off in an ample amount of pigeon devotion. I would let Debbie out of her cage each morning for a walk around the school, and eventually she became my shadow, following me around like a small prancing dog.

Birds, it seems, attach themselves to one person. Debbie is, after all is said and done, MY pigeon.

For a few glorious months last year, she started laying eggs. Now, she has begun a career as a stalker.

I let her walk around all day during the summer, when we have only a small amount of children in the school. No matter where I am, she will find me, and prance about, head bobbing and cooing, before perching on the highest surface in the room and, well, gazing at me with such concentration that I figure she is trying to control my mind.

Her latest trick is to walk under my desk and, just when I am not expecting it, peck at my feet. An internet search revealed that this is mating behavior. Apparently, in the absence of a suitable male partner, Debbie has decided to devote herself to me.

There are worse things in life than to be adored by a pigeon.