By: Squealexander Hamilton, Escape Caper Commentator & Hawk Watch Commander
The Great Puppy Escape
Farm life is many things—peaceful, chaotic, muddy—but never boring. Take last week, for example. Chris and Krystin were in a mad dash to leave for a workday, tossing the puppies into their dog yard like usual. Problem solved, right?
Wrong.
Because the night before, there had been a massive rainstorm. And in their rush, my humans forgot something very important: the back gate was wide open.
When Grandma Donna arrived to feed the horses, she was greeted by Joan—sweet, loyal Joan—whining and fussing at her like Lassie in a farm reboot: “The puppies are loose! The puppies are loose!” But Donna didn’t quite get the message until she turned her head and saw Bandit sprinting across the yard, ears flapping, tail high, gleefully chasing a chicken.
From there, chaos reigned. Puppies scattering like popcorn, chickens shrieking like the sky was falling, Donna running after them all. I stayed out of it (I am a professional, after all), but let’s just say I provided excellent sideline commentary from my pen.
The Hawk in the Bag
As if puppies on the lam weren’t enough excitement, Krystin upped the ante by coming home with… a hawk. In a shopping bag.
Yes. A hawk.
In. A. Shopping. Bag.
Now, I didn’t get to witness this myself (I was home doing very important mud research), but I’ve pieced the story together from reliable sources… okay fine, from Krystin herself.
She was driving down the road when she saw a hawk swoop dangerously close to a big box truck. Next thing she knew, the poor bird was sucked into the backdraft, smacked down onto the road, and left flailing on its back in the double yellow lines. Cars whizzing past, talons in the air, tongue hanging out like a dropped chicken nugget. Dire straits.
Most people would have kept driving. Not my mom. Nope. She slammed the brakes, threw the car in reverse, and bolted into action like a NASCAR pit crew in muck boots. She even started signaling other drivers, like “Excuse me, emergency! Bird down! Bird down!”
When she finally dashed into the road, she looked at this hawk—massive talons, hooked beak, the whole “I eat things like you” vibe—and realized she was about to attempt a rescue with exactly zero hawk-handling gear. She whispered a little prayer (probably something like, “Please, Lord, don’t let me lose an eyeball”), and then, in true Krystin fashion, grabbed that hawk the same way she grabs her roosters. Bold. Reckless. Ridiculous.
And miracle of miracles—it worked. The hawk didn’t slash, didn’t bite, didn’t go full Jurassic Park on her face. Just sat there, stunned, probably wondering why he’d been scooped up like a sack of grain.
Enter: Random Nice Lady, stage left. She offered a towel… then returned with a shopping bag. Because sure, nothing says “safe hawk transport” like a flimsy bag meant for discount sweaters. And somehow, against all odds, it worked.
So yes, Krystin drove home with a hawk riding in style in her sports car. How many hawks can say that?
The Legend of Stephen Hawking
Back at the farm, Chris and Krystin set up a dog crate so the hawk could recover. They gave him a stick to perch on, and within minutes, he was standing tall, looking around like, “Yeah, I totally meant to get hit by a truck.”
They offered him water and even a little raw dog food, and he happily accepted both. Clearly, this bird was no fool.
As night fell and the chickens tucked into bed, the humans decided it was time to set their guest free. By then, they had named him Stephen Hawking (because of course they did).
Paul opened the crate, using a rake handle as a polite nudge to encourage Stephen out. He stepped onto the ground, stood for over a minute, and looked around like he was delivering a speech: “Thank you, humans. Your service will not be forgotten.”
Finally, Krystin asked, “Are you going to fly away?”
And just like that, as if he was waiting for verbal permission, Stephen spread his massive wings and lifted off—straight to a nearby tree, safe and sound.
So now we have a rooster who gets chauffeured in golf carts, and a hawk who recovers in a luxury dog crate and eats raw dog food. Tell me again why I’m the one stuck eating lettuce stems?
Snoutfully Yours,
🐽 Squealexander Hamilton
Pig. Poet. Puppy Commentator. Hawk Biographer.
