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.