My arch-nemesis: the bird.
What is the definition of a pet? For some individuals a pet is a loyal labrador retriever; companion who both shows and accepts your affection. For others it may be an old house cat who is a fixture in their family life, or a hamster, or any other living creature for whom they take responsibility for because they care about them. I have three dogs that drive me to the brink of murder-suicide, but despite their life-ruining neediness, I enjoy spending time with them–I would spend two hours walking my dogs on the South Side river trail over almost any other activity.
Then there is my girlfriend’s Nanday Conure (a parakeet), Tiki. The reason Tiki is still alive is because we rescued her from a family that was terrified of her, and kept her locked in a cage 24/7. She is obsessed with my girlfriend, and will sit with her for hours, demanding head scratches and making happy little noises. However, Tiki and I share a burning hatred for each other. When I am even within her line of sight, she puffs up and begins grabbing anything around her and begins tearing the shit out of it: clothing, furniture upholstery, skin, etc.
Presently, her flight wings need to be trimmed, so she has the ability to soar around the house like a crazed, Melvin-hating eagle. So, there are numerous moments during the day when I have to pick her up. Sometimes I use the TV remote, but I am reluctant to do so on a consistent basis, because Tiki tries to rip the fucking buttons out of it. This means, I have to use my person to get her to her cage. Luckily for me, she has a developed a strategy for maximizing her potential to bite the shit out of me–and I am always dumb enough to fall for it.
The bird will wait until I approach her to pick her up, an then she chirps pleasantly and holds one foot in the air, and makes clinching motions with it–beckoning: “Its ok Jason, we are friends now…let me perch on your finger, and everything will be ok.” But, everything is NOT ok.
She waits until I gain a fragile sense of security, perches gently on my finger, and then–
*CRUNCH*
She fucking sinks her walnut-cracking beak into my flesh. I scream in pain, thrash around…the bird freaks out…flaps around the room wildly… and then usually lands on my shoulder where my face is suddenly fair-game. If she is feeling generous, she just viciously grabs the fabric of my shirt an punches a few holes in it. Sometimes, Tiki suppresses her desire to poop until the opportunity arrives to land on some part of my body, and then she shits right on me. It’s GREAT.
What kind of goddamn pet-to-person relationship is this?
P.S. I am going to upload a photo of the bird, and my mangled hand later tonight.
**UPDATE**
Visual Evidence:
Tags: The Stupid Bird
December 12th, 2007 at 3:51 pm
The Romans had the Gauls
FDR had Hitler
The Yankees have the Red Sox
and you…
You have Tiki the Parakeet
(very funny)
December 12th, 2007 at 4:05 pm
Melvin, Set the Bird Free. See if its hate is real. If you let it go out the window and it somehow comes back to you. Then you will know you have a nemesis.
December 12th, 2007 at 4:22 pm
Admin had Court
SoitGoes had the dude in Bates West would gave him ragweed
Maggot has the Female population
Me . . . no enemies.
(but I trained Tiki)
Sorry to say it Melvin, but your pitfalls have usually provided terriffic comic relief. Remember the splinter?
December 12th, 2007 at 4:24 pm
Yep, and welcome our loudest friend in NY to the board…as UrJustLivingInIt
December 13th, 2007 at 8:08 am
Can we get a visual of the bird shitting on you? I think that would help others understand further the magnitude of your dilemma with the bird.
December 13th, 2007 at 9:36 am
NO.