Chapter 5

5 The Legend of Mickey Lightning Dave's dad, aka Mickey Lightning, was nothing like I remembered. When we were younger, just little squabs hunting around under park benches for croissants, we would watch his dad train for races. His chest would ripple as the muscles under his feathers stretched, pushing him forward as he rocketed up into the sky at the speed of lightning.

Now, as Mickey stepped into view, I could see the feathers around his chest were stumpy and straggly with age. His voice was gruff, like sandpaper. And he'd started to lose the feathers on his crown. But the pigeon standing in the studio was definitely Dave's father. 'Mickey Lightning is your dad?' Jet barked. The grey in Dave's face faded as he pressed closer to the glass to watch his dad stretch out the parrot's scarlet wings. He paled from grey pigeon, to not so grey pigeon, to even less grey pigeon, all the way to white dove, as we listened to Mickey and Opprobrious Vastanavius the Parrot break into a fit of giggly screeches

over a joke about a chicken and a duck. 'Dad?' Dave whispered, his eyes wide in disbelief. As he pushed closer, his new wing clicked and snapped out, whacking the glass door so that it shot open. Both Dave and Jet bowled into the studio, all feathers and paws. For a moment there was silence as we stared at Dave's dad and he stared right back at us. 'What are you scurvy lot doing here?'

Opprobrious Vastanavius the Parrot squawked just as Jet started yowling hysterically. I tried to pull Dave back as the parrot's shipmate crew howled and shrieked, crashing towards us, trying to push us out of the room. Mickey stood still, unmoving. I grabbed Dave by the wing as he continued to stare at his dad. 'Let's go!' 'Are you OK?' I asked Dave. He'd been chirping away about the best ingredients for a good macaroni and strawberry trifle all the way back to the safety of Pawsville. 'Of course I'm fine, Skipper,' Dave squawked, his feathers all huffy and fluffy,

which meant he was anything but fine. I'm the finest I've ever been. Finey, finey, finey fine.' He pecked at the harness of his new wing to slide it off. His beak got trapped under the leather strap and as I went to help, he pulled away hard, pinging it in his face. 'I need to rest, Skipper,' he said, nuzzling his bruised beak in his good wing. 'The key to winning a race is staying as still as possible, don't you know?' He slunk towards the back of the vet's. Me and Jet waited in the reception area, by the abandoned scooter. We heard the clang of Dave's cage where I knew he'd crumpled into his sawdust bed. 'What's going on?' Jet whispered. Why

won't Dave talk about his dad?' We settled on a worn dog bed by the window and drank water from a dog bowl. It would be down to me to tell Jet about my friend and his father. 'Dave adored his dad,' I started. 'They were inseparable.' I told Jet about how we used to help Mickey train, how we would pretend to race him and how he would let us win. 'As word spread about Mickey's talent, he hit the big time. Humans were paying lots of money to see him race and Mickey chose the life of a racer pigeon over living at home with Dave and the family.' I sighed. 'One of the last things he told Dave was to