Jonah, you animal lover:

This morning, I ran into a friend of mine standing by the side of the road in my little Westchester village. She was holding a garbage bag and looking distressed. It seems there was a nearly dead pigeon lying at curbside. Her daughter had spotted it on the way to school and begged her mom to call the local animal rehabilitation group to come save it. The call was made — pigeons don’t rate. The cops were called. They don’t do any West Nile type investigation until the bird is dead.

My friend tried to pick up the bird with the garbage bag but got freaked out and couldn’t do it. I offered to try. I picked it up using the garbage bag as rubber glove and gently placed it in a paper bag. I said I would put it in my back yard to see if it just needed a rest. At least its final hours would be better than lying in the sun on the street. And we’d tell her daughter it got all better and flew away.

Once Operation Transfer Bird was complete, I stood there and told my friend that my book would soon be published.

Really, she said, what’s it called?

I looked at the paper bag in my hand and couldn’t believe the significance. It was like reality charades.