Since it's chilly, I placed a square of fake fur into a small box that Bug likes to climb in at night sometimes. A swatch of soft yellow yumminess for a certain little bird to snuggle into.
I should've known. He abhors it. If I leave a seedball in the fabric, he'll go get it. Snuggle? Hell no. Eeewww, he snorts, fabbbbricccc. Like his snunky little box is full of poop.
Tonight, a small cadre of trickotreaters came by, so I had to put the Bug away. I put him in his room with his drawbridge down, but the lights off. He could sit on his cage or go inside and sleep. I went in later to tuck him in and he was chortling softly, his bedtime cutie-pie dialogue. Hooray!, I thought. He's in the soft, yellow nest! I couldn't see him but found his little fuzzy box empty. No, instead, he was on top of his cage between the two sheets I used to cover his cage. He was tickled and giddy and silly with the sheer luxurious serendipity. I laughed and left him there. How could I disturb such utter satisfaction?
And how could've I know what would be perfect for him? He chose what suited him. I merely stumbled into his preference. I want him to love what I offered him, but this never works.
I need to go check on him again. He'd probably be fine with his cage door open and the room door shut. The cats are in the basement and the dogs are on the couch with me. What a little dude. Anything to keep him warm in this upcoming season of chilliness.
31 October 2008
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