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Early yesterday afternoon, I saw a dove sitting very still on my back patio. Its eyes were closed and, at first, I thought it was dead, but as I looked closely, I saw it was taking in quick, short breaths. For about a minute, I thought about how to best address the situation. I suspected the dove flew into the big bay window by the dining room, so I thought it best to leave the dove alone until it regained its senses.
Later that afternoon, I happened to walk past the bay window and I noticed that the dove had changed positions, "Good," I thought. "Hopefully, the dove will be on its way in no time."
A suspected autumn allergy turned out to be an irritating, little cold, so I spent the rest of the evening on the couch sipping hot tea and watching "24 Hour Party People" and "Control" (two fucking great movies, one about the Madchester scene and the other about Joy Division) on the Sundance Channel. I fell asleep on the couch and dreamt about seeing Joy Division perform in concert.
I woke up the next morning feeling a little better but still quite a bit congested. After pouring myself a cup of Good Morning America, I walked up to the bay window to check up on the dove. I didn't see the dove, but I did see quite a bit of feathers scattered about where it had been the day before. The realist in me understood that one of the neighbors' cats probably got to the dove during the night. But the optimist in me believed that the dove kicked the cat's ass and then flew off to wherever doves go after handing a cat its ass.

Damien Rice - When Doves Cry