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The Finster Log
Archive — June 2009
Where Are We Going?
Posted on: 06/30/09, 21:30:38 | | link
I've been making jewelry for awhile, and this past weekend I was a vendor at my first formal art show, Art in the Park
in Lathrup Village, Michigan. (You can read a bit about it here
.) This was, I think, only my third time away from Harley since he's moved in with us. Here he is, helping me pack:
Needless to say, Harley was very unhappy to have me gone. Apparently, he leaned Bruce around the house a few times, looking for me. Friday night, when Bruce tried to put him in his cage for bed, he hurled himself around the cage a few times, and he finally slept on the wrong
perch. Saturday night he fell asleep on the perch in the window of the bedroom, woke Bruce up (who was dozing on the bed) at about midnight for about an hour of scritches, and finally went to bed in his cage, several hours late. Needless to say, when I walked into the house on Sunday I pretty much dropped everything so I could pick Harley up and tell him how much I missed him.
No obvious grudges, we're fine now. Um, except I have a four
-day show next week. And Bruce has to go to DC for work for two of those days. So, uh, if the world ends, you'll know why. If that's any consolation. Sorry.
Apologies For The Near Disaster
Posted on: 06/10/09, 21:27:09 | | link
The world almost ended this morning.
You're lucky if you didn't realize it, that adrenaline rush is rarely fun unless there's a pony waiting for you at the other end. Here, though, we couldn't avoid the terror.
You see, once Harley wakes us up (rather closer to sunrise this time of year than one might normally want), Bruce goes downstairs, lets Harley out of his cage for his Enormous And Inspiring First Morning Poop, starts the hot caffeinated beverages for the humans and the hot herbal beverage for the avian, puts together Harley's breakfast, and sets the bird and the food on the top of his cage. By this time I'm downstairs, just in time to see Bruce go into our basement office for work.
Today, however, Bruce came back upstairs almost immediately to see why Harley was making an Enormous And Terrifying Din. Although some of his vocalizations can be quite piercing, Harley isn't usually loud, so this morning was quite unusual. Loud. Very loud. Incessant. Angry. Loud. Did I mention loud?
Bruce came upstairs full of questions, but I had a pretty good idea. "Did you give him toast this morning?" I asked.
"No." Bruce replied. "What does that have to do with all this noise?"
"I'll bet you a dollar he wants toast. He got toast yesterday, right? So he wants toast today."
Guess who quieted down once he got toast? Guess who got a dollar? Guess who gets toast every morning from now on? Because we'd hate to be responsible for the end of the world, after all.
And aren't you glad we didn't forget his tea? I'd hate to imagine the repercussions from that one!
Posted on: 06/04/09, 14:45:14 | | link
There was a moment, when I was steeling myself to insert the entire top half of my body into a space that is about 21" by 9", when I realized I'm not losing a little weight so I'll fit into my jeans better, or to get rid of the beginnings of old-lady-turkey-neck, but because I have to do this, every so often, and I HAVE TO FIT. Getting out is a little trickier than getting in. As is the case with many things.
I know, Internet Friends: this photo would have been much better if it actually depicted me half inside the cage, since there's nothing funnier on the internet than pictures of people's asses. But if I'd called Bruce up from the office to take a picture, I figured I may as well have asked him to hold a sheet behind me so I could open the big door, and avoid the ignominy of my ass in all your faces. So I gritted my teeth, climbed in, swept the finch cage with a brush — TWICE: that is, left side AND THEN right side — cleaned the trays, added many, many (many) layers of poop paper, and walked away for a few months.
I haven't done this too often since we moved to our new place, I'm pretty sure when we first moved here I added so many layers of paper the Finsters barely had room to fly. Since then it's been a crap shoot (uh-oh, out of paper, gotta add more, what do I have on hand?). But after this one, I think I'm back to so many layers the Finsters can't fly. Maybe I'm getting older, maybe the bird dander is starting to get to me, but really: this is not a job you want to do very often.
Either that, or we move back to a 600-square-foot crappy apartment where the birds don't have far to go if they escape from their cage. But Harley wouldn't like that very much.