He loved looking at his best friend...the way the grays and whites of Duane's feathers glistened in the early morning light. Those feathers were so soft and delicate to his fingertips. And the soft, almost mournful coos of the pigeon put him utterly at peace. And really, he didn't mind the earthy, natural taste of the bird's feathers when he kissed his head gently, nor the slightly musky scent that Duane had gotten from living in his pen mixed with the smell of open air. He adored him too much to let things like that bother him...after all, the bird was one of the few friends he had.

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