Grandpa and the Mourning Doves

I was having a conversation with the youngest offspring today and for the life of me I don't know why we got on to the topic but we did. It may have been the next to youngest come to think of it now. Who knows , my past is a blur. There is just too much excitement here in Aurora what with black bears roaming the neighbourhood at night and getting treed the next morning. True! Check the t.v.
We, whichever child I was talking to started remembering how much my Dad hated mourning doves. He hated the way they cooed. There was a tree about level with his third floor balcony and the lovely gentle things would roost there and coo at him. Well, he took it personally.
In retaliation he would go out early in the morning or at dusk, whenever they were at coo, and sling used teabags at them. Poor dovies would arise in a great clatter and Dad would feel much better. He never wanted to hurt them hence the used teabags. He just wanted them to shut up.
That got us thinking about how much the tree has grown in the five years since my parents left their apartment. It's now level with floor eight, the very top of the building. Perhaps a new occupant will look out at the tree, when the leaves are gone, and find fossilized tea bags hanging by their little strings and wonder, 'What the...?"
I know it's not likely but it made a charming picture. Better a teabag in a tree than a bear!