The Greater Wide-Striped Buttocksbiter

I put a dragonwood branch in the Packbawky Palace last week. It's long and twisty, and bounces a little when disturbed. The birds seem to enjoy this springiness: several times, I've woken up to the sound of mischievous peeping, and caught them landing repeatedly on that branch, trying to jolt each other loose. (It never works when there's only one bird sitting there. If there are two or more, however, one might flap its wings to keep its balance, and knock its neighbour down.)

While on the subject of birds sitting close together, I ought to mention that a new order has been established in the Palace. Mr. Snagglebeak has stopped bothering Mr. Yellow, and is now gunning for Miss White. On several occasions, he has flapped her away from the food bowls, allowing Mr. Yellow to eat undisturbed. Miss White does the same thing for Miss Blue. Affectionate behaviour between the Misters and the Misses isn't confined to feeding times, either: Mr. Snagglebeak and Mr. Yellow sleep bunched together on the dragonwood branch, while the ladies do the same on the rope perch. The cocks don't do quite as much beak-regurgitating and face-rubbing as the hens, but it does go on. It's nice to see them making friends. I had expected them to bond in opposite-sex pairs, but perhaps this is how budgies do things when they aren't trying to make little budgies. (Either that, or they're all gay.)

The other morning, on my way to no place in particular, I discovered a patch of grass between two buildings. The sun was out and I was tired, so I sat down for a while. I balanced Stephen King's latest on my knees, text side up, as though I'd just set it down to rest my eyes. You need an excuse to be sitting on the ground, see. If you haven't got a book or a camera or a sandwich, people mistake you for a bum. Most of the time, it doesn't matter: whatever the Yaletown crowd might think of beggars, the tendency is to ignore them completely. A river pays more attention to the pebbles on its bank. But once in a while, especially round rush-hour, you get an angry commuter type, someone who's had an awful day at the office and wants to let off steam. I was told to get a job twice last year, and once an apple-core sailed out of a car and into my lap. (I can't be certain the core was meant specifically for me, of course. People are forever throwing things out of cars, often without looking. I got hit in the head by a beer can that way, back when I lived in Texas. Although I was not hurt badly, I bled profusely. Head wounds are always messy. The beerman pulled over to survey the damage. He said he didn't know there was anyone walking by the side of the road. I couldn't think of an appropriately crushing rejoinder with blood running into my earhole, so I settled for a bit of unintelligible spluttering.)

At any rate, there I was, book on display, enjoying a spot of late-afternoon peoplewatching. I had my eyes peeled for birds, too, but I didn't expect to see many, with the five-thirty crowd noising it up all around me. I noted down the most interesting people I saw, penciling them into the margins of my book:

* A lady with a broiled duck in a bag--wonder if she knows its feet are sticking out?
* A man with an incredibly long beard. It's wrapped round his neck right now, but I think he could tickle his willy with it, at full extension.
* A really young kid, unaccompanied. For shame!
* A cloud that looks like a bassoon (glanced up on that one!)
* Two very large men walking dachshunds.

I was just writing up the dachshund men when I heard a familiar whirrrrr-flump, and a seagull plopped down on the pavement. I reached in my pocket for my camera, meaning to take his picture, but the minute I moved, so did he. He reared up on his gully wee toes, stretched out his wings, and shruck me a shriek: whoooooo-EEEEEEEE!--then he flew away. I hate seagulls, sometimes. All that seed they gobble down from my birdfeeder, and they can't even pose for the odd snapshot? Twats!

Ten seconds later, Rat B fell in the toilet bowl. It would've been much funnier if she'd been called Rat P.

It's either Rat A or a Greater Wide-Striped Buttocksbiter.

This thing lives in the jakes, as well. Sometimes, it comes out and posts pictures of itself on the Internet.