often drew our finger pads to his back, Howard’s legs and toes were a scaly earthworm red indented with concentric circles.
The first time we opened the door to his cage, Howard stayed rooted to his perch for several moments, as if he couldn’t believe such magic were possible. With a hop he plopped both feet onto a lower perch, hesitated, turned his body toward the beckoning exit, then jumped onto the open door extending from his cage. A few steps across the bars took him to the door’s edge, where he waited like an Olympic diver mustering concentration for a difficult combination. Finally he flung himself across the dining room, wings flapping heavily as he settled on a chair back facing the parakeets’ cage. A maniac’s laugh,
hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo
, erupted from his chest. Bowing rhythmically, he launched into a lusty series of hoots timed to the dipping of his body, raising one foot at the completion of each bow. His chest swelled as he hooted, but his beak remained clamped shut. As we soon learned, this series of hard-wired actions, instigated by the presence of other birds, was a fixed ritual for Howard. Whenever we freed him from his cage, he followed the same routine, from his initial look of disbelief to his concluding strutting-in-place recital.
The parakeets were unimpressed with Howard’s unvarying song and dance, and after a couple of days, I had to throw in with them. Our dove was a bit of a dud in the companionship department. Though he’d contentedly sit on a wooden perch for hours, once out of his cage he refused to wrap his toes around a human finger, cling to a wrist, or rest upon a forearm. He didn’t seem to be so much afraid of contact with us as he was completely disinterested in the concept. While Ollie cocked his head and chattered at the soundof our voices, and Stanley Sue at least cocked her head, Howard paid no more attention to my “Oh, what a pretty, pretty bird” soliloquies than rabbits Binky or Bertha had ever paid to the shouted command “No!” Howard struck me as a bird particularly ill suited to sharing space with people and their possessions, no more at home in a house than a rooster, and the cramped quarters of the dining room diminished whatever natural grace he possessed. Only when he abandoned those four walls and sailed into the living room to land on the handlebars of our exercise bike did a small hint of the beauty of his long-distance flight unfurl. Truly he belonged in the open sky or, at the very least, in a large aviary packed with palm trees, bromeliads, and docents.
My 1984 edition of
Simon & Schuster’s Guide to Pet Birds
described Howard’s ilk as “friendly birds, even toward small finches and such.” But not, apparently, toward any birds we owned. Our initial fear was that the mischievous parakeets might pick on Howard the same way they got the best of Ollie. Instead, Howard delighted in chasing the three budgies and Chester the canary around our dining room. His flight was clumsy compared to theirs; he was a bomber outmaneuvered by looping stunt planes. But as long as he could scatter the competition and subsequently crow from the top of the refrigerator, he was satisfied with his work.
“I hope he doesn’t hurt the other birds,” I grumbled to Linda, less because I thought he could actually do any harm and more because I hoped to make her feel guilty for inflicting this rabble-rouser on us.
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s harassing the parakeets.”
“No he’s not. Howard’s a romantic. He’s courting them. What do you think the bowing’s all about?”
That made sense. He never hooted at his rival, Ollie. Instead, he’d plop down next to Ollie and make a cudgel of his wing, attemptingto knock him off his cage. For the moment, Howard stayed well clear of Stanley Sue. But his attention toward the budgies did indeed smack of ardor. Rossy, who had her small black eyes set on Ollie, cold-shouldered Howard’s come-ons. Sophie, who
The first time we opened the door to his cage, Howard stayed rooted to his perch for several moments, as if he couldn’t believe such magic were possible. With a hop he plopped both feet onto a lower perch, hesitated, turned his body toward the beckoning exit, then jumped onto the open door extending from his cage. A few steps across the bars took him to the door’s edge, where he waited like an Olympic diver mustering concentration for a difficult combination. Finally he flung himself across the dining room, wings flapping heavily as he settled on a chair back facing the parakeets’ cage. A maniac’s laugh,
hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo
, erupted from his chest. Bowing rhythmically, he launched into a lusty series of hoots timed to the dipping of his body, raising one foot at the completion of each bow. His chest swelled as he hooted, but his beak remained clamped shut. As we soon learned, this series of hard-wired actions, instigated by the presence of other birds, was a fixed ritual for Howard. Whenever we freed him from his cage, he followed the same routine, from his initial look of disbelief to his concluding strutting-in-place recital.
The parakeets were unimpressed with Howard’s unvarying song and dance, and after a couple of days, I had to throw in with them. Our dove was a bit of a dud in the companionship department. Though he’d contentedly sit on a wooden perch for hours, once out of his cage he refused to wrap his toes around a human finger, cling to a wrist, or rest upon a forearm. He didn’t seem to be so much afraid of contact with us as he was completely disinterested in the concept. While Ollie cocked his head and chattered at the soundof our voices, and Stanley Sue at least cocked her head, Howard paid no more attention to my “Oh, what a pretty, pretty bird” soliloquies than rabbits Binky or Bertha had ever paid to the shouted command “No!” Howard struck me as a bird particularly ill suited to sharing space with people and their possessions, no more at home in a house than a rooster, and the cramped quarters of the dining room diminished whatever natural grace he possessed. Only when he abandoned those four walls and sailed into the living room to land on the handlebars of our exercise bike did a small hint of the beauty of his long-distance flight unfurl. Truly he belonged in the open sky or, at the very least, in a large aviary packed with palm trees, bromeliads, and docents.
My 1984 edition of
Simon & Schuster’s Guide to Pet Birds
described Howard’s ilk as “friendly birds, even toward small finches and such.” But not, apparently, toward any birds we owned. Our initial fear was that the mischievous parakeets might pick on Howard the same way they got the best of Ollie. Instead, Howard delighted in chasing the three budgies and Chester the canary around our dining room. His flight was clumsy compared to theirs; he was a bomber outmaneuvered by looping stunt planes. But as long as he could scatter the competition and subsequently crow from the top of the refrigerator, he was satisfied with his work.
“I hope he doesn’t hurt the other birds,” I grumbled to Linda, less because I thought he could actually do any harm and more because I hoped to make her feel guilty for inflicting this rabble-rouser on us.
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s harassing the parakeets.”
“No he’s not. Howard’s a romantic. He’s courting them. What do you think the bowing’s all about?”
That made sense. He never hooted at his rival, Ollie. Instead, he’d plop down next to Ollie and make a cudgel of his wing, attemptingto knock him off his cage. For the moment, Howard stayed well clear of Stanley Sue. But his attention toward the budgies did indeed smack of ardor. Rossy, who had her small black eyes set on Ollie, cold-shouldered Howard’s come-ons. Sophie, who
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