The Birds Settle In

When Mr. Snagglebeak came back from the vet's, I went to great lengths to arrange his cage in a manner befitting a no-toed bird. I rigged up a platform for him to stand on, taking care to have food and water within easy pecking range. I bought extra-large perches, and whittled them to fit his not-so-large cage. He seemed hungry, so I brought him millet sprays. He seemed lonely, so I fixed him up with a mirror. He seemed bored, so I took the swing away from the other birds and gave it to him. And what has the wee sod done? He's pecked down the platform and the toys, dipped his tail in the water bowl, and scorned the perches in favour of hanging by his beak from the roof of the cage. I kid you not. His favourite pastime involves scrabbling up the bars, wings all a-flutter, then hanging from the roof with his feet waving in the air. Eventually, he falls down, but this doesn't deter him at all. He just flaps back up and does it again. When he gets tired, he goes and stands on his cuttlebone for a while, ignoring the perches completely. Either that, or he does get on a perch, only to run back and forth like a mad thing: clickety-clickety-click! Clickety-clickety-click! It makes me tired, just watching him.

Don't get me wrong: it's nice to see him so full of energy. When he first arrived, he seemed ready to expire any minute. He shook and wobbled on his perch, only stirring when one of the other birds gave him a shove. This newfound joie-de-vivre can only be a good thing--except, see, I'm afraid he's going to do himself an injury. He can't hang onto the bars properly, without any toenails. He's always falling down--bonkety-bonkety-whirr!--hitting every perch and platform on his way. He doesn't seem any the worse for wear, but it can't be terribly comfortable.

Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be much I can do about this behaviour. Having his wings clipped would only make things worse. He'd fall much harder if he couldn't flap on his way down. Besides, he's not flying up to the roof. He's climbing, unbelievable as that may seem. I don't think he knows his toenails are missing. He grabs onto the bars, slides down, grabs on again, then scrabbles like a ferret till he achieves upward propulsion. His little blunty toes slip right off, but he hangs on with his beak.

As for Mr. Yellow, and the Misses White and Blue, they're finally getting the hang of their new cage. They've been doing a lot of flying, chasing one another from perch to perch. Mr. Yellow has staked out a high platform for himself, and retreats there when the hens get too pushy. Miss White likes to forage around on the floor, so I hid some millet down there for her to find. She seemed rather pleased, and immediately whistled up the other birds to share in her windfall. I wonder if it would be safe to put an interesting root in there, or a small hollowed-out tree-trunk--something for them to explore. They seem quite inquisitive, always poking their heads into things. A box with perches in, however large, strikes me as an inadequate environment for such nosey creatures.

I can't let them out of the cage as much as I'd like, either. They aren't used to large open spaces. They panic, and end up getting themselves into trouble. Miss Blue got in the sink the other day, and Mr. Yellow's been down behind the TV set several times. Then, there's that enormous pane of glass between the living room and what used to be Stella's room--a bird could really hurt itself, flying into that. It looks like I'm going to have to concentrate on making the inside of the cage more fun, rather than turning my flat into a packbawky free-for-all. There are just too many pointy things lying around, too many clean windows and unstable surfaces.

Having read that birds enjoy taking baths, I stuck a bowl of water in for them one day, just before popping into the shower. When I came out, there was water on the couch, water on the TV, water on the fire-screen, and water on the floor. There was, however, no water on the birds, not even a drop. I was both bamboozled and impressed. Next time, I'm going to squirt them with a spray-bottle and pretend it's raining. That should be fun. (For me, any road. Ha, ha.)

Mr. Snagglebeak, I've been washing by hand, with a Q-tip. Needless to say, he doesn't much care for such treatment--and in view of his recent acrobatic performances, I'd say he's well enough not to need it any more. He's been preening quite extensively on his own, and last time I bathed him, he wasn't terribly grubby at all.