A Crown of Feathers

We've turned a corner, I would say. We don't talk anymore about finding another home for her, M would say. Not that another home for Brooks would've happened in reality because her saving grace has been that when one of us is ready to send her back where she came from, the other is defending her.

And so Brooks has stayed and we have persevered. We always had the magical six months to carry us through her bad behaviour and busy antics. We'll give it six months, we would say, six months to settle down and adjust, otherwise...

Brooks made it past the six month mark a couple of weeks back. And she's pretty relieved she gets to keep her pride of place as M's crown of feathers. Since M's saved his neck by stopping her shoulder rides, Brooks has taken up residence on his head. She holds on to M's hair as though she's sitting on flattened elephant grass. She loves her fast rides through the apartment when she has to hold on tightly.

She loves busyness and excitement and when there's not enough of it, she makes her own, chattering at a high pitch looking for something, anything, that she can dive bomb. Then she and M play fight until someone gets hurt, always M with a bite to his fingers or wrist. When I can't take the high pitched chatter from the play fight any longer I hear my mother's voice: "Will you two stop fighting!" "But she loves it. She's having a ball," comes the reply. "Yes, but someone's going to get hurt." I hear my mother's voice again.

I've discovered that Brooks turns to mush when I talk to her in a high pitched cootchy-coo voice. She melts like butter in a hot pan and so I use it all the time to win her over. She even does her love jig for me, usually only reserved for M, when I talk sweet nothings to her. The other night, in her sweet moment of listening to my nothings, I high-pitched, "See Brooks, I told you I'll beat you. I told you I'll win." (see Bad, Bad Brooks May 2010)

She wagged her little body and chirped her little chirp.