I was once called a 'grey homing pigeon'. Oh, already a few years ago, so this turtledove doesn't care about that anymore. These days I think cooing is more important than fighting. I don't worry about anything at all anymore. At the time, I thought that was a terrible comment. I still felt so young and yes, I was already a little gray. The harbinger of old age. From the nest I come from, that equaled dull, boring and colorless. A specter that would spontaneously turn you gray. After the necessary flying hours I have learned that nothing is what it seems and that you only hurt yourself when you try to leave everything as it is and you disturb the opinion of others. Everyone always seems to know better and to have it better, but there's only one thing you can rely on and that's your own wings. If you don't follow it, you won't get anywhere. It's really that simple. When I was young I didn't understand all that very well. My previous cock therefore did not suit me at all, but I still stayed with him for a very long time. Probably because I wanted to hold on to the familiar and was too afraid to let go. Once the time came, I discovered a whole different world. One in which there was much more air and space for me. A world in which I could finally spread my wings. Could feel what it was like to be as free as a bird and decide for myself how far I want to fly. Explore, hover, coo. The funny thing is that it's not about the distance covered, like those homing pigeons do. What is important is that you find peers who understand you. Who accept you as you are and appreciate you. Only then will there be a bond that is more beautiful than that symbolic ring. I also have a number like that on my leg, but it doesn't mean anything to me anymore. I only have to look next to me to know what's important. Look at him sitting there, that big sweetheart of mine. What gray? Take a closer look! We are not gray and we are not a carrier pigeon. It's so pointless to worry about other people. Let that unknown chap learn the difference between a homing pigeon and a turtledove before he opens his crooked beak. It's about the art of torturing, cooing in freedom. It may well be that the spot next to me will soon be empty again, but what remains is a good feeling and a bond that means more than a warm side.