This Bird Bites

Our Brooks has become a minor celebrity. Twice, out of the blue, I've been asked, "How's your bird?" from people I thought didn't even know we had a bird. But they've become acquainted with her from reading my blog.

One, my hairdresser, shook her head in commiseration. "You should've spoken to me first," she belatedly advised. "I inherited my mother's love bird and she was horrible. I had to change her water with rubber gloves on my hands. After six months I was too happy to pass her on to a friend of my mother's who asked for her."

Admittedly, Brooks doesn't bite me much anymore. She bites the most when she is on a shoulder and so I no longer put myself in that position. She's learnt that she does not have access to that pride of place. By reinforcing the behaviour, removing her when she gets there or tries to get there, she has learnt to be satisfied with sitting on my forearm. Now as I type, she preens and bobs up and down perched on my wrist.

Not that limiting Brook's access to my shoulder didn't come without her letting me know what she thought of this arrangement. One evening, a couple of weeks back, she flew to my shoulder from M's. My hands were in the sudsy water washing dishes. "Won't you take her off?" M obliged and placed her on top of her cage just on the other side of the counter from the sink.

Washing the dishes, I could see the 10 inches that is Brooks sizing me up. Her little head went first to one side and then the other as she did her calculations. My hair falls on to my shoulders and so takes up some of 'her' space and has mostly protected my neck from her pecks. Brooks, I've learnt, is a smart bird. She knows this.

As she sized me up, I thought, "she's coming straight back," expecting her to fly to my head. No, our smart begrudging bird had other ideas. In a dart, she flew to the front of my t-shirt, landed accurately on the hem of the shirt, and delivered two swift bites to the front of my unprotected neck. Hands still in the water, I calmly called for help, "she's biting me".

M turned from packing dishes in the cupboard but smart calculating Brooks took off. M wasn't letting up and nor was she. As he approached her perch on the lamp shade in the living room, she flew down towards his uplifted hand and delivered a hard bite to his finger. Painful bite or no, she was returned to her cage.

Not that she minded. Her deed done, the humans disciplined and communicated to in no uncertain terms, she was satisfied. She whistled softly to herself on her perch, exuding peace and contentment. She looked over her feathered shoulder at us: no hard feelings.