Five Times

It's really my fault. It always is. I knew it after I walked out of the room, pissed and hurt, thumb throbbing. SSW bit me five times on my left thumb's knuckle--chomp, chomp, chomp, chomp, chomp. He had been on the floor next to me trying to nail the clean newspapers I was placing around his cage. The big cat walked by and I wanted SSW off the floor; he though, wanted to tell me that this was unacceptable and that yes, he was very riled up and thank you very much for providing your thumb for the proper outlet for his displacement of emotions.


I look at my thumbs and first fingers and they have a small collection of small half-moon wounds in various stages of repair. My coworker asked me yesterday, And why do you have this creature? I smiled and thought of Jonesy.

Jonesy is SSW's right hand parrot-mate. She talks like a pirate to him, which makes him bob his head. They make smoochy noises to each other. He rubs his cheek on her neck. She will type on her laptop with her right hand and let him sit on her left hand, held in the air, like a little prince. They are drinking buddies--he peels the label off her beer bottle and tongues the condensation off the glass. She even has a song for him, which makes him sing along, in his own way, of whistles and shrieks.

But Jonesy works all the time. So SSW is left with she-who-keeps-her-thoughts-to-herself.

So how does the wallflower trait have a corresponding relationship to the frequency of being bitten, you say?

Ach--the math makes perfect sense.

Note to introverts: birds prefer a chatty pal. If you are the silent type, get a cat. This just could be my hurt feelings talking, though. He nuzzles my neck, too, and chortles soft mumbling sometimes. I love to watch him dehusk and eat a snap pea, the large, green pod clasped in his left foot. And you've should've seen him holler in equal volume and excitement at a PJ Harvey cd. As they say, parrots love drama.

He's lucky he's so darn cute.