You’ve surely heard of “A bird in the hand.” Well, I have a bird on the foot. My precious cockatiel Grant (my good friend has his brother who she named Lou) is an odd duck, er, I mean bird. (Aren’t ducks birds?) He is a bit standoffish, doesn’t like to fly, eats like a, ah, flying pig, and is obsessed with my feet.
Yes, that’s correct, my feet. You see, Grant’s cage is up on a high stand, and shortly after I remove him from it and put him on top of the cage for a change of scenery, he flop-flies down to the floor and toddles to my feet which are usually under the desk as shown here. He then scrambles up onto my shoe where he happily meditates. Frankly, I do feel plenty foolish with a bird thusly ensconced on my foot.
I’ve had a number of birds in my life, but never have I had one with such an unfailing foot fetish.
Oh for the joys of a lazy Sunday morning after a night of big booming storms. Now we relish the calm – and the coolness. So do my beloved cockatiels who are at last settled after a week of
being shuttled here and there. The poor creatures were relegated to the hallway as we rearranged the household while moving my 27-year-old daughter out (at last!!) and re-converting her room back into my study. My tiels stopped eating for a few days and my personal avian alarm, Frederika, quit her earsplitting screaming, which she does to demand my company, or alert me to the immediate need to have her food replenished. Her companion, my Freddie, stopped singing his rendition of London Bridge is Falling Down, which is really quite beautiful and definitely audible, even in the backyard.
But now they are now ‘home,’ they are now ‘happy,’ and they have resumed their alerting me that it’s time for their 4 p.m. bowl of popcorn.