The Bird and I (apropos of nothing significant)

Sometimes little things can be big in one's life, though they hardly matter the larger scheme of things. Like my bird and me.

I'm sitting at the kitchen table, my laptop in front of me, and a lovebird perched on my shoulder. This is our time together, everyone else is out, so I can let him out of his cage without worrying about him flying down the hall and bothering someone else. He's not mean, and all he wants to do is commune with his "flock", but he's sometimes like an annoying house-fly, you can brush him away but he keeps coming back. People complain, i.e. my wife and son.

But he and I have an understanding on these mornings. I let him out and he checks out the house, sees that it's just he and I, and he settles on my shoulder. Sometimes we dialogue, he chitters and chirps and looks at me, then pauses. I say something back, doesn't matter what, and he responds. That can go on for awhile. Sometimes he works his way down my arm and sits on my hand; if I'm typing he'll sometimes nip gently at my fingers, sometimes he'll drop onto the keyboard and try to pull the covers off the keys. I brush him away from that, knowing that he has successfully removed a couple covers from my daughter's keyboard.

Sometimes he decides to "preen" me while he's on my shoulder, which means gentle nipping at the skin and my nose, looking for anything "loose." Or he's be sitting on my hand and decides that my thumbnail doesn't belong there, and tries very hard to work it loose. Failing that he'll move onto my watch and try to loosen the band. I shake him off and he flies around and settles back on me. Two buddies, two birds in flock, just some little squabbling among friends.

Later he'll move back to my shoulder and simply sit there, gazing around the room, fluffing his feathers, talking to himself. If I get up, he rides along. And that's how I put him back in his cage; he usually won't cooperate if I try to simply put him in, so he and I have developed a routine. I walk to the back bathroom, either with him on my shoulder or him following me. Once he's in the bathroom with me I shut the door. He settles on my hand. The bathroom has no window, so when the light's off it's pitch black, meaning he won't fly away. I talk to him, then begin a countdown: "Time to go back. Five four three. . . ." around that point he turns around on my hand so it's easier for me to grab him. "Two . One. Dark . . .." I switch off the light. "Dark now," and I gently grab hold of him, hands around his wings so he can't fly. Then I walk back to the kitchen and put him in his cage; all the way there he presses his beak lightly on my hand, as though reminding me he could bite if he wanted to. I put him in his cage and reward him with a peanut.

I go on to my day, and he contentedly sits in his cage, sometimes rattling one of his bell toys, sometimes just chittering to himself, pulling millet seeds off a stalk, eating, drinking, sometimes sleeping. Till then next time I take him out, which will be during my lunch and later when I clean up after dinner.

See? I told you it wasn't anything big. Except to me and the bird and our little lives.