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When I arrive at the barn each day, I'm usually greeted by my wonderful barn manager. She says things like, "Hi, friend!" and, "How are you today?" and, "This weather makes me want to kill myself," if conditions are sub-optimal. But until yesterday, I'd never heard her say, "Do you want a pigeon? His name is Steve."

Steve, it turns out, is one in a succession of Steves. Apparently there is someone nearby with a flock of domestic pigeons that will escape, fly to the fam, and then promptly die of exhaustion. Domestic pigeons do not have a great homing instinct and literally don't know how to find food in the wild, so once they leave home things usually don't end well for them. 
I've learned a lot about pigeons in the past 12 hours. 
So here we had poor Steve, far from home, very tired, and in a situation that could quickly turn fatal for him. And there I was, the sole bird owner in the place, my bleeding heart displayed clearly…

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