SSW is peeking his head out from under the rolly dishwasher. Now he's headed over to try to get behind the gas stove. I gently steer him out of there with my foot.
I swear he has a little limp as he walks, then he doesn't. When he tries to run fast enough to keep pace with me from room to room, sometimes he opens his wings a little, flies a few inches. He seems panicked when he's trying to catch up. Jonesy likes to say, You can fly, man, so fly.
He will pace in front of a closed door, poking his beak under the crack and dragging it along the floor. Open the door, and he'll meander around the corner, looking up at you like a friend across the bar: Over here!
Lulu is protective of her food bowl so I get a tad nervous when the bird is strutting about at meal time. I do appreciate how he likes to dip a drink from the big red dog bowl, though. Give SSW a surface with a rim to perch on, and he will perch. Shitty little toes contaminating your water glass, your tea mug, your pasta bowl. He is not too embarrassed to walk through his own poop as he has proven to me over and over. In the wild, he says, da poop falls to the forest floor.
Sometimes I feel stalked by those little pitter patting feet. Sometimes it makes me laugh. I should feel flattered, utterly adored, worshiped. Small green fellow at my feet, keep on ambulating. And maybe, try out those wings, too, ok?
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