Bad, Bad Brooks

M and I stand, side by side, making our lunches for the next day. Our kitchen is small; we are companionably close. When Mrs. Magoo was in our lives, our kitchen couldn't accommodate two adults and a large cat, somebody had to leave. Brooks is different. All ten or so centimetres of her sits snuggled, between us, on M's shoulder.

The kitchen is companionably quiet with sounds of breakfast yoghurt and sandwiches being prepared: a swish of butter, a slice of cheese, a spread of raspberry jam. I spoon plain yoghurt into containers, add ground flax seed, muesli and sweetened cranberries. The tablespoon, dipped in yoghurt and covered in flax seed, is knocked twice against the container to dislodge the excess before I get to lick it clean.

As I knock, Brooks jumps off M's shoulder on to mine. I glance at her. She pecks briefly at my shirt and my upper arm. In two jumps, she's at my wrist and bites hard. Stunned, I just look at her. She releases her grip and makes a second even more determined attack on my skin. I can't get past stunned. Nor can M.

"She's biting me!" I state the obvious. M replies the obvious, "I know. I see that". My knight in work clothes, M reacts before Brooks sinks her beak into my flesh a third time. With a swish of her wings, Beastly Brooks retreats from her attack into the study. In more than two squawking and protesting ticks, she's in her cage with the door firmly shut. Bad, Bad Brooks!

Brooks is 80% feathered cuteness and 20% terror.

The day after the attack, I nurse my wounded spirit. But on day two, I'm in fighting form. The internet's not enough, nor the e-book I downloaded, I head for the library. I take out all the books they have on parrots: Breaking Bad Habits in Parrots, Guide to a Well-Behaved Parrot and The Second-Hand Parrot. The three titles tell it all, except that Brooks is third-hand. Armed with my artillery, I greet Brooks as I come through the door. "Hello Brooks! See what I have here? I'm going to beat you, Brooks!" The battle is on.

That evening, she is all her 80% feathered best behaviour. She amuses herself on her floral chair, looks out the window, preens and investigates while we watch hockey. She flies between us and settles on M's shoulder for a snooze. At bed-time, she happily and obediently hops onto my finger, zips into her cage peacefully and is rewarded with a piece of cashew nut. Good Brooks.

My investigations reveal that our parrotlet is baby, toddler and rebellious teenager all rolled into one. If parrots don't get enough sleep (12 hours) they can be cranky like the rest of us. They need a lot of play and interaction. And at about two years, Brooks is just the right age for hormone issues. Hormone issues?!! Who would've thought? Plus it's spring, the mating season - enough reason for her hormones to be raging.

An author advises that hand-me down parrots come with baggage but dedicated noble humans (his description, not mine) can bring out the best in them. For her sake, I aim to win.