Mr. Yellow Gets Bullied

(Mr. Snagglebeak, looking a bit on the bunchy side.)

Here's a shocker: since his reunion with his mates in the Packbawky Palace yesterday evening, Mr. Snagglebeak has managed to establish himself in the role of dominant male. That is to say, he's been picking on Mr. Yellow. Nobody messes with the hens. They are both larger and sharper of beak than their male counterparts, with personalities to match. When I stick my hand in the cage to change the food or water, the cocks fly away, squawking their indignation from afar. The hens, though, they're another matter entirely. I might have paid for their luxurious new pad, but that doesn't entitle me to visitation rights. The minute my hand hoves in sight, the hens stage a ferocious divebomb attack. Miss White is particularly bad: not only does she enjoy the taste of human flesh, but she's got a mean wing on her, to boot. An attack by Miss White feels a little like getting your hand pinched in a bulldog clip while someone slaps you repeatedly with a feather duster.

At any rate, the pecking order is as follows: the Misses White and Blue, then Mr. Snagglebeak, and at the bottom of the pile, poor Mr. Yellow. Mr. Yellow just can't win. Even the bird with no toenails pecks him away from the food. Not ten minutes after Mr. Snagglebeak went in, I watched him chase Mr. Yellow away from the seeds, the pellets, and the fruit, leaving him shivering on the rim of the water-bowl. For a moment, I thought Mr. S. was going to follow him there, as well, but then he got distracted by a raspberry.

I'd been worried, too, that the other birds might bully Mr. Snagglebeak. Budgies are nasty wee gits. They love to peck at sick or injured birds, or smaller birds, or larger birds, or things that aren't birds at all. I saw Miss Blue trying to peck her reflection in the mirror, and they'll all peck me if they get the chance. The vet trimmed Mr. Snagglebeak's bill to a deadly point when he went in for his final mite treatment, resulting in a bloody-hand incident when I picked him up to return him to his cage.

On that subject, I must point out a grave injustice. When the birds peck each other, they don't go for the soft tissue. They just bang their beaks together, and whoever gets knocked back is the loser. When I get pecked, on the other hand, it's an out-and-out gorefest. They gouge into my fingers like kids looking for ha'pennies in a Christmas pud. As a matter of general principle, I keep my fingers as far from the birds as possible, but I've got to feed them somehow. Feeding times are an uncomfortable experience for everyone involved. The birds (not surprisingly) hate human beings, and I hate Miss White. Did I mention that she shat down my sleeve, the other day? I didn't notice it at first, but when I rested my elbow on the table a few minutes later--faugh!

Ah, well. At least they don't bite quite as hard as Stella did. I'm not sure I could handle four angry Stellas, all at once. Then again, Stella didn't gnaw. Her bites were quick, stabby affairs. The birds, they pinch and grind, which is at least twice as horrible as it sounds. I have, on several occasions, had one attached to me by the beak. The only way to get the bird to let go, once this has happened, is to try and take its picture. Seems they don't like photographic evidence of their transgressions. They're like little Hollywood starlets, demanding that only their best sides be shown to the public. Take this, for example:

This is me inspecting Mr. Snagglebeak for injuries. He'd just lost a tail feather, and I was afraid he'd torn it out somehow. Note how gentle he seems in this photograph, nestling calmly in my hand, one foot curled round my thumb. Aw. Isn't he sweet? Isn't he fuck. About a second after the shutter snapped, he bit my knuckle, squawked in my face, and flew back to his cage. And there was nothing whatsoever wrong with his tail. He's just moulting, is all. All the birds are moulting, in fact. I think my vacuum's going to expire from the strain.

As for me, I've been a bit under the weather, most likely worn out from all the Christmas festivities. Shopping and spastic dances do rather take it out of a person. I reckon I'll be back on my feet in a day or two (at which point I can re-exhaust myself, catching up on work and e-mail. Ha, ha.)