Blueie the lovebird just turned eight months old. He was born April 1, but I think the only fool around this house is the old fool. Blueie has me completely wrapped around his claw– rationally, I know this– yet I persist in regarding him as an innocent example of pure avian love and trust.
If I think about it– and these days I have plenty of time to think about what Blueie is thinking– I realize that he’s probably not as sweet and innocent as he seems. Witness:
What I do: I get him to climb shoelaces up onto bookshelves above my desk.
What Blueie is thinking: Oh, for God’s sake. Doesn’t the idiot realize that I hated gym class? Who does he think I am, a Ukrainian gymnast living on testosterone and fear? And there’s never anything on that shelf when I finally get there. All right, a little secret: I’ve found the naked Key West pictures tucked behind a picture of Immaculate Mary, and those are always good for a laugh. What an idiot! But I suppose I should keep climbing the damn shoelaces because, one day, there might be some food at the top.
What I do: I get him to lay on his back on my palm so that I can massage his stomach. He loves it!
What Blueie is thinking: He thinks I LOVE this? Granted, it feels a lot better than when I hump my toy in my cage, and it’s a lot less work, but still… I feel pretty vulnerable in that position. suppose the big idiot should drop me, or sneeze on me? What if he pokes my eye out by accident? Then I wouldn’t be able to find the shoelace and would probably run around in circles, screaming, until I fell off his desk and hit the floor and go into convulsions. That’ll show him !!
What I do: I use the computer mouse while he imitates the noise by buzzing and clicking.
What Blueie is thinking: Buzzing and clicking, eh? I’ve got the big lug completely snowed. What I’m doing is distracting him by sounding cute, all the while patiently biting through the mouse cord. He’ll either become enraged when he realizes that his system seems to be completely frozen, or he’ll electrocute himself. Whatever happens, I’m laughing !
What I do: I refer to his food and water as foo foo and wa wa; he recognizes the words and goes to his feeding trays.
What Blueie is thinking: What is he, retarded? Foo foo and wa wa? He’s fifty-five years old– I know this, I heard the lame birthday singing last week– so why doesn’t he use adult terms? Foo foo is actually a paltry mix of dried seeds, petrified fruit pellets, and something called millet spray. Wa wa is a plastic bin half-filled with tepid water, into which I’ve invariably crapped. Why can’t he be honest?!?!
What I do: I arrange things so that he has a fun-filled shower up at the kitchen sink.
What Blueie is thinking: This is rather humiliating, because I’m expected to be on my best behavior. Every two days the big dope entices me to the kitchen faucet my making me climb down, then up a ladder until I reach the countertop. Then I’m expected to march over to a dribbling faucet and have a shower while the stupid jerk stands there clapping his hands and singing what he calls The Shower Song. Please! If he wasn’t responsible for feeding me, and if I had an extra set of hands, I’d crown him on the head with that ladder. And the reason why I get under the dribbling water is that I’m exhausted from all that ladder climbing. And, okay, so maybe I was expecting there to be food… but there never is. Bastard!!
What I do: I allow him to climb all over me.
What Blueie is thinking: Ahh, pay dirt! No food awaits me, but I get to nip away at his gold necklace in the hopes that it’ll fall away and be lost somewhere inside his whities. Or else I can make off with it and cash in… gold is fetching steep prices these days! And I’m also picking at the threads of his tee shirts and bathrobe so that those will fall away too, hopefully embarrassing him in front of his friends.
Not that that’s possible, actually…