It’s May 2020. I’m sitting by the floor-to-ceiling window in my living room, staring out at the trees swaying in the wind, thinking about how the world has devolved into a silent chaos during the pandemic. It was what I focused on entirely after losing my best friend, WeeGee, in January. I was firmly in the anger stage of grief, with a side of denial.

The anger I felt wasn’t directed at my loss or even at WeeGee being gone. Instead, I fixated on the pandemic, coming up with colourful names for Boris “Bin Bag Full of Custard” Johnson for not doing enough to keep people safe. I have never felt safe — my brain is stuck in hypervigilance mode — yet when the world calls for hypervigilance, people still aren’t. It confused and irritated me in equal measure.

My son, who was 15 at the time, was in his room on his laptop for Zoom school. Meanwhile, I sat in the quiet aloneness next to the window with my own thoughts. Then, something magical happened — I suddenly wasn’t alone anymore. A wood pigeon landed on the windowsill and sat next to me. Separated by glass, it was as if he came to say, “You’re not alone.”

“OMG SON, COME QUICK!” I shouted.
“I’m in a lesson!” He replied.
“IT’S AN EMERGENCY!” I exclaimed with exaggerated urgency.
“You brought me in here, for a bird? Lol,” he said, used to my brand of emergencies.
“HE’S MY FRIEND NOW,” I proudly proclaimed.

Enter Squidgeon The Brave

WeeGee’s favourite poem was by Emily Dickinson, “Hope is the thing with feathers”:

Squidgeon felt like a sign of hope — full of feathers, just like the poem. In fact, at first, I called him Mr. Feathers. We just sat there staring at each other for a while, him on the windowsill and me inside. It felt like we were sizing each other up, connecting in a way I couldn’t quite explain.

When he flew away, I did what anyone with a serious hyperfixation tendency does: I ordered 5kg of sunflower hearts on Amazon for next-day delivery. I also spent HOURS researching wood pigeons, googling cute questions like, “How to be friends with a wood pigeon.” I told my son, with great excitement, that ever since I’d watched Home Alone 2, I had aspired to be the pigeon lady in Central Park. FINALLY, my dream was becoming a reality.

The seeds arrived, and I waited, hoping Squidgeon would come back — and thankfully, he did. At first, he was incredibly nervous and flew off every time I tried to open the window to pass him seeds. After a few days of this, I started putting seeds out there first thing in the morning. When Squidgeon visited, he got all flappy and excited about the abundance of sunflower hearts.

To coax him closer, I placed all the seeds on the windowsill and waited. From the safety of his tree, he stared at the seeds for ages before finally being brave enough to hop up next to me and peck at them. In the beginning, I couldn’t move a muscle while sitting by the window, but over time, he grew braver. Eventually, he even let me take my phone out to snap a few pictures. Squidgeon is incredibly brave.

Enter Goose The Timid

After a week or two of Squidgeon visits, we discovered he wasn’t alone — he had a partner! Squidgeon brought her along to the window one day, and my son, noticing her long, thin neck (typical of female pigeons), named her Goose.

Goose is incredibly timid and still is. She will only visit with Squidgeon and never comes on her own. Usually, she waits in the tree until I’ve dropped seeds out of the window, and then she cautiously makes her way over. She’s not a fan of my phone or any sudden movements, which I’ve learned to respect.

I love how different they are. Squidgeon is the brave, curious one, always ready to explore, while Goose is cautious, keeping him in check with her watchful nature. She doesn’t seem interested in being my friend the way Squidgeon is — she simply tolerates me. I respect Goose for having bird boundaries though, I let her be the way she is.

That’s one of the things I love most about wild animals: I get to appreciate them like they’re my pets, but they still get to live their wild, untamed lives.

Then There Were BABIES

Over the next few months Squidgeon and Goose got comfortable around my window, VERY comfortable. So comfortable, in fact, that they decided to start their family right there on my windowsill. Turning my window into an R rated PigeonHub browser window. I thought, maybe I should close the curtains? Give them some privacy?

My son, absolutely horrified, yelled, “Why did they have to do it RIGHT THERE, OMG!” And honestly? SAME.

I didn’t want to be part of the beginning process, but I’m glad I got to see the fluffy and adorable outcome. A few months later, Squidgeon and Goose brought their babies to the window, as if to say, “Look what we made!” I felt so honored that they trusted me enough to bring their little ones to the windowsill to see us. But I guess they already trusted us enough to make them in front of us.

The day they introduced baby Squidgeon was another “EMERGENCY” that I just had to call my son away from Zoom school to witness. He was so dedicated to home learning during the pandemic, and there I was, constantly distracting him with pigeon-based emergencies whenever anything remotely exciting happened.

Since 2020, Squidgeon and Goose have had about six babies, all of whom they’ve proudly brought to see us before shooing them off to start their own grown-up pigeon lives. Thankfully, we haven’t had to witness the creation of all six — though there were quite a few we were made unwilling participants in.

My son thinks I’m single-handedly responsible for the entire wood pigeon ecosystem in our area. He’s probably not wrong.

Commence Operation Pigeon Surveillance

It’s now been five years since we met our pigeon friends, and they’ve got us on 24/7 surveillance. Squidgeon and Goose watch us from the trees, stake out our flat, and follow us from window to window. Don’t ever miss seed time — Squidgeon will find you and make sure you know you’re slacking.

When the curtains are closed, Squidgeon will peck at the window, as if to say, “TAP TAP TAP, are you in there, human? Your curtains do not fool me. I need to talk to you about the word.” I open the curtains to see him standing proudly, flapping his wings with excitement — both for seed and to remind me that “the bird is the word.”

In the summer, when the window is open, Squidgeon will perch on it. If I let him, he’d happily invite himself inside. When my son was back in school in 2022, I text him to ask if I could let Squidgeon in. He replied, “NO, DON’T LET HIM IN—IT WILL NOT BE LIKE YOU THINK.” He wasn’t wrong. I’d been imagining Disney princess vibes, with Squidgeon helping me with the dishes, but deep down, I knew it would be pigeon poop, anxious flapping, and utter chaos.

Thanks to their constant surveillance, I’ve caught them watching me do human things with utter confusion on their cute little bird faces. Squidgeon and Goose tilt their heads as if to say, “What are you doing now?” They’re equally scared and curious when I hoover near the window. If Squidgeon is already perched there, he immediately panics and leaves as soon as he sees me coming with it. It’s as if I can hear him say, “OH CRAP”.

They seem to enjoy watching me clean the windows, too. They follow me from tree to tree as I move from one window to the next, as if supervising my work. The only reason I clean the windows is so I can see them better, and I hope they appreciate the shiny glass perch I’ve created for them.

Occasionally, I’ll walk into the room to find two fluffy pigeon butts pressed up against the glass. I’m not sure what that means in pigeon, but I like to think it’s their way of saying, “Thanks for cleaning the window, human — please enjoy fluffy butts as a reward”.

Sometimes, they even bring me gifts. Squidgeon and Goose have left little twigs — or, well, trash — on my window. I imagine them thinking, “This seems like a human thing, the perfect gift!” But in reality, it’s an empty sim card package. I’m still working on training them to bring me money or gold. Until then, I’ll treasure my trash gifts.

THE BIRD IS THE WORD

I was feeling so alone in 2020. Grief does that to you — you know you’re not alone, but you feel it all the same. On top of that, the actual loneliness of the pandemic and lockdowns made it even harder. I was metaphorically and physically alone with my grief. My son was focused on his studies, and I felt I had to hide it from him.

Squidgeon and Goose came to me at a time when I most needed to be reminded that I wasn’t truly alone.

They were like carrier pigeons, delivering a message of hope — just like WeeGee always did for me. I’m not sure I believe in signs, fate, or messages hidden in symbolism. Squidgeon doesn’t exist for my benefit; he just exists. And that, to me, is beautiful enough. In fact, it makes it even more miraculous that we connected so randomly during the loneliest time of my life.

They brought hope with their feathers.
Perched not just on my window, but on my soul.
They sing their coos every day.
And never stop at all.

Here’s a perfect song for my pigeons. Three little birds by the legend himself, Bob Marley.