Dumpling First

It's been months since I have sat down to write. I blame much of that on the fact that I usually find time to write on the weekend, and it's rather hard to compose online when you're camping all summer.

So here I am, 7 am on a Saturday morning. I just had my daily dose of cereal; just the recipe to perk my brain. I'm lounged back on the couch, fingers poised above the keyboard, ready to spend a nice and relaxing morning writing when I hear:
Squaaak

I look up, and there's that bird. THE bird.
Squak squak squak. . .tweat

He looks in my direction, blinks a few times as if to say "Who me?"

I don't understand how he does it. He has one leg firmly gripped to the side of the cage, and his other is stretched out in the opposite direction grasping a set of linked geometric shapes. My bird does the splits in mid air on a regular basis. Why he does this to himself, I can only guess. Maybe it's a self infliction of pain - punishment to make him feel better for all the racket he creates.

"Dumpling," I say sternly, making it clear that I'm serious. "I am trying to write over here. Could you please be quiet?"
Tweat.

"Oh Dumpling, what a sweet little sound," I exclaim in delight, encouraging the good behaviour.
Tweat-tweat-tweat. SQUAK!

He is now perched on the wooden dowel that extends across the width of his cage. He starts attacking the geometrical string that hangs from his wire ceiling. At first he just starts by pecking at it, but the moment it starts swinging too much he grabs on to it with one claw and really starts gnawing away at the plastic. He starts this in silence, but the more involved he get with the chewing, the more noise he makes. The sound is somewhere between a squeak and a squak, the decibles getting louder and stronger.

Maybe if I just ignore him, he will give up. I'll just quickly pound on the keys, as if I'm so absorbed in my writing (which happens to be all about him - but he doesn't need to know that) that I don't even notice him. Oh this is fun! Writing is fun! The keys clacking more rapidly, I must REALLY be enjoing this writing stuff.
Silence.

This is good! I must really look like I'm not paying attention. Part of me really wants to look over there, just to see if he's watching my display of delight.

No Jen, keep the eyes glued to the laptop.

But it will only be a glance.

Even if he sees the glance, the gig will be up and I'll be done.

But eyes. . .must. . .look.

I quickly snap my eyes up - only to stare back into his candy-round eyes that reflect nothing but emptyness. Sucking in air, I realize I'm caught! And he knows it too.

He blinks, arcs his neck around, and buries his beak in his butt giving it a nice firm fluffing. Scratching himself right in front of me - sheesh! No manners what-so-ever. He straightens himself up and belts out.
Squak squak squak squak squak.

"Dumpling! If you don't put a sock in it, I'll make you into a dumpling!"

I hate to bring it down to a threat, but he's taken it this far. He seems to be pondering this. Silence at first, followed by a very gentle
Tweat

Yeah, that threat usually pipes him down for a few minutes. When I really get frusterated with the bird, I like to look over and imagine him with a pot-sticker with legs. I think he knows the resemblance, and so even if it is an empty threat, I think such a notion as being plucked, boiled, and ultimately digested in pleasure could frighten even the bravest birds out there.

I lean over and lick my lips for effect. He is paralyzed.

Ahhhh, silence. Snuggling into the pillows, I relax for a minute. Comforting, yes - but now I'm not sure what to do. This is hardly sport when the bird stops fighting back.

I peer over my laptop screen to see Dumpling clinging to the side of the cage - my side of the cage. He looks at me with despiration.
Tweat tweat tweat - cooooooooo

"Dumpling, is there something you want?"

He flaps back down to the dowel, starting a warmup jog. His straw legs start getting higher and higher bringing his knees into his chest.

"Dumpling," I say getting up at last, "Could there possibly be something you want?"

This is driving him crazy! His knee-ups have now evolved into him excitedly paddeling back and forth along the dowel. Faster and faster he goes, randomly letting poop-lets drop. He poops when he gets excited - or at least how I explain it to myself whenever I end up with so many presents on my shoulder while he takes perch there.

I approach the cage, and I'm not sure his little legs could carry him any faster to-and-fro.

"Could it be that you are wanting this," I say shaking the bag that sits next to his cage.
Tweat chirp tweat chirp tweat tweat tweat

I empty the bag into his dish and the gate falls as I remove my hand. Dumpling flies over and starts madly pecking away at his breakfast.

Ah yes, gotta love the morning routine. Now that Dumpling is busy with his millet, where was I? Writing. Oh yes, writing. About what? Sigh, I seem to be at a loss of what to write about. Best go take a shower and get on with my day. Perhaps I'll find another morning to write in the near future - and just maybe I'll think to feed Dumpling first.