Who races pigeons anymore?

Dr Brannigan smiled as she lifted the pet carrier out of the car. It squawked. Ogden was just as excited as she was. It was his big day after all.
She joined the milling crowd on the hilltop. Some had already released their entries from their cages, letting them stretch. Brannigan found a quiet spot, flicked open the carrier and pulled out her creation.
All the component parts of Ogden could fly. The chest came from a blue macaw, the abdomen from a fruit bat and the feet from a goose. The tail was all the best parts of swifts and flycatchers and the head a reconstruction of pterodactyl. But the wings were the fine part: a pair from an albatross, two pairs from peregrine falcons, seventeen from hummingbirds scattered about the body and six bat wings along the belly, for emergencies.
They took their place at the starting point. The whistle shrieked and Brannigan launched her pet upwards amidst the flurry of flapping creatures.
All his wings opened and found a strange rhythm. Ogden flew, just as she had hoped.

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