About a bird.
This entry is about a bird.
Specifically, a cockatiel.
More specifically, a moody, beady-eyed cockatiel named Wally who has taken up residence in my craft room.
But Helena, you ask, how did a cat lover like you acquire a bird?
What an excellent question. Allow me to give you a brief (haha, sure) explanation.
He's just not that thrilled to see you, bro.
Wally belonged to my grandmother. He played with her. He let her put him up at night. They were bros. Grammie cared for birds throughout Dad's childhood, so she actually knew what she was doing (unlike the rest of us, who kind of whistled awkwardly at this poor creature in hopes he might whistle back). When Grammie passed away, Grandpa stepped up to the plate... but unfortunately, he and Wally didn't have the same kind of relationship. For one, Wally prefers women. (He tolerates Mom; meanwhile, Dad can't get the time of day.) For another, I don't think Grandpa let Wally out of his cage as often. They just sat together in the den. I suspect they watched a lot of football and Walker, Texas Ranger.
Grandpa passed, too, and the question became what to do with this little bird. At first, we considered taking him to a rescue (let's just say my parents' cat-infested house is no place for feathered things). Then Mom suggested I adopt him. Dad... not so much, figuring I would accept out of obligation (what can I say, the man knows me). But I really missed having an animal around and figured we'd be fast friends by the end of the month.
This all transpired in March. Six months later, Wally is still moody and beady-eyed.
I will break that phone in half, bro.
Google was my friend for many, many weeks. A brief list of things I learned:
I bought him toys he didn't play with and fresh fruits/veggies he wouldn't eat. There's a curtain covering the bathroom mirror so he won't fly into it. The bathroom door stays closed so he won't drown in the toilet bowl. A Magic Mesh (yes, the one seen on TV!) hangs at the craft room doorway, so he can fly around without escaping into the living room while the Troll and I practice our knife juggling. (Or where the ceiling fan is running, which is the ultimate danger.)
He poops on me. A lot. Once he pooped in my hair three times. I accepted it was grace and dignity.
At 9:30 I cover his cage with the same sheet and towel Grammie used. (At 9:31, he will let me know it's time for bed. Cockatiels are small but mighty.)
Some days I will work in the craft room, watching movies and listening to music, and he'll just peer at me from his cage despite his door being wide open. I think to myself, He must hate me.
But other days, I'll spend forty-five minutes laying out the new photos and coordinating papers for my next scrapbook-and he will burst from his cage (photos flying in my face) and chirp triumphantly when he lands. And I think to myself, as he grooms my eyebrows, He must love me!
And then sometimes, rarely, he'll stand on top of my feet to prevent me from walking out of the room. (He did this one night when the Troll's son came over for dinner. The Troll ended up bringing me a plate so I could eat on the floor with Wally. Meanwhile, the grown-ups ate at the dining room table.) And I think to myself, He is emotionally manipulating me.
So... no. I'm not Grammie. Wally doesn't play with me, per se. He won't eat the fresh veggies I chop up for him. But sometimes he'll accept a Cheerio from my hand, or groom my eyebrows. It's okay. We're cool.
We're starting to get along.
Specifically, a cockatiel.
More specifically, a moody, beady-eyed cockatiel named Wally who has taken up residence in my craft room.
But Helena, you ask, how did a cat lover like you acquire a bird?
What an excellent question. Allow me to give you a brief (haha, sure) explanation.
He's just not that thrilled to see you, bro.
Wally belonged to my grandmother. He played with her. He let her put him up at night. They were bros. Grammie cared for birds throughout Dad's childhood, so she actually knew what she was doing (unlike the rest of us, who kind of whistled awkwardly at this poor creature in hopes he might whistle back). When Grammie passed away, Grandpa stepped up to the plate... but unfortunately, he and Wally didn't have the same kind of relationship. For one, Wally prefers women. (He tolerates Mom; meanwhile, Dad can't get the time of day.) For another, I don't think Grandpa let Wally out of his cage as often. They just sat together in the den. I suspect they watched a lot of football and Walker, Texas Ranger.
Grandpa passed, too, and the question became what to do with this little bird. At first, we considered taking him to a rescue (let's just say my parents' cat-infested house is no place for feathered things). Then Mom suggested I adopt him. Dad... not so much, figuring I would accept out of obligation (what can I say, the man knows me). But I really missed having an animal around and figured we'd be fast friends by the end of the month.
This all transpired in March. Six months later, Wally is still moody and beady-eyed.
I will break that phone in half, bro.
Google was my friend for many, many weeks. A brief list of things I learned:
- Dowel perches are bad for a bird's feet, so you should invest in natural, branch-like perches.
- But they might not fit your cage, so you'll have to saw off four inches from that one you bought at PetCo.
- Sunflower seeds are the Twinkies of bird world.
- Replacement food, sans sunflower seeds, will cost $20.00 per bag. Upside: it takes two months to empty a bag. Downside: the bird will hate you because you took his damn Twinkies.
- A cold chill can kill a bird. Close your room vents.
- Enjoy those warm summer months scrapbooking, bro.
I bought him toys he didn't play with and fresh fruits/veggies he wouldn't eat. There's a curtain covering the bathroom mirror so he won't fly into it. The bathroom door stays closed so he won't drown in the toilet bowl. A Magic Mesh (yes, the one seen on TV!) hangs at the craft room doorway, so he can fly around without escaping into the living room while the Troll and I practice our knife juggling. (Or where the ceiling fan is running, which is the ultimate danger.)
He poops on me. A lot. Once he pooped in my hair three times. I accepted it was grace and dignity.
At 9:30 I cover his cage with the same sheet and towel Grammie used. (At 9:31, he will let me know it's time for bed. Cockatiels are small but mighty.)
Some days I will work in the craft room, watching movies and listening to music, and he'll just peer at me from his cage despite his door being wide open. I think to myself, He must hate me.
But other days, I'll spend forty-five minutes laying out the new photos and coordinating papers for my next scrapbook-and he will burst from his cage (photos flying in my face) and chirp triumphantly when he lands. And I think to myself, as he grooms my eyebrows, He must love me!
And then sometimes, rarely, he'll stand on top of my feet to prevent me from walking out of the room. (He did this one night when the Troll's son came over for dinner. The Troll ended up bringing me a plate so I could eat on the floor with Wally. Meanwhile, the grown-ups ate at the dining room table.) And I think to myself, He is emotionally manipulating me.
So... no. I'm not Grammie. Wally doesn't play with me, per se. He won't eat the fresh veggies I chop up for him. But sometimes he'll accept a Cheerio from my hand, or groom my eyebrows. It's okay. We're cool.
We're starting to get along.