For folks who frequently have picked up eggs and other goodies from us this winter, this sign which hangs above our doorbell is self-explanatory. But for those who have yet to make a recent trip to the farm, allow me to shed light on this cryptic sign and tell you the origin story of our newest member of the family, SQUAB.
Sometime in the Fall while Amy was doing the laps around her coops, she heard the cries of a very distressed… thing… on the ground of our blue barn.
Always looking for ways to subvert the Th̶r̶e̶e̶ Four Cat Doctrine, Amy took it upon herself to “rescue” the poor Thing from the ground and re-home it in our outdoor quail pen. For twenty days and twenty nights she would spoonfeed the Thing until it reached level 16 and achieved Stage 1 Evolution
Amy called this thing Squab, which means “baby pigeon” in IWentToVetSchool language. Squab really liked people, much more so than his quail compatriots, and would scream for your attention anytime you were within 40 meters of its pen, as well as any time you weren’t within 40 meters of its pen. It was a spoiled brat, still asking to be spoonfed despite showing every capability to exist in avian society. But at some point Amy had to go away for the weekend, and Squab and I had a sitdown on the harsh realities of the dog-eat-squab world that we live in. Deciding he was up for the challenge (and with a little help from the moonstone snuck into his feed), Squab evolved into his final stage form
We called it “SQUAB” which is Zachspeak for “I really like shouting this name”.
After multiple sessions on the Arm Dropper (use your imagination), SQUAB had finally learned HM02 and was ready to find independence in a new home. However, with the ability of flight achieved, the world suddenly became much larger than the 10’x5′ pen he was accustomed to, and our SQUAB was no Leif Erikson. To prevent him from being overwhelemed, I would place SQUAB on my shoulder when going out to collect eggs, and slowly but surely he was introduced to the 9 acre universe he resides in. With various barn-like structures scattered throughout and low interest rates, SQUAB had a number of great options to pick from. Would he move into dilapidated Red Barn and hang out with our feral chickens in the rafters? Maybe he’s more of a duck at heart and would stay in the Duck Aviary with his merping cousins? Or perhaps he’d pick the very large Blue Barn where his biological parents reside.
Or maybe he’d just sneak into the semi-heated garage every evening at 3:30 pm during final egg collection and spend his nights pooping on Eevee the Equinox…
Sigh…
Yet, despite his impish nature (+Def, -SpA), we do enjoy our SQUAB, and his presence has been a pillar of comfort these last few cold months. Unfortunately, his presence seems to have been less than comforting for unsuspecting visitors, for you see… in SQUABs numerous voyages to explore the world on our shoulders, he’s come to view humans as a sort of vehicle to ride upon, consent be damned.
Should you visit the farm in the future and hear the flutter of dark wings approach from behind, be at peace. It is not the angel of death; it is SQUAB, and he would just like you to walk him to the duck hut for some poultry feed.
