Prowess

It is a strange relationship. There is machismo, and territory. Pounding of chests and demonstrations of Prowess, with a capital P.

That he, the only male in the household who still is able to procreate, has Gonads.



He snaps at my hand, runs his beak along the bars of the cage like an inmate's cup. Clang-clang-clang. The gesture is no less intimidating than if he were a 300 lb, 6'4" murderer.

Yet I am boss. He can break the surface of my skin, can draw blood. But with two fingers, I could snap his tiny neck and that would be the end. His eyes peer curiously sideways at me from either side of his head with the knowing glance of one who is genetically designed to be preyed upon.

He lunges at the cage when Cat and Tiny poke their soft paws at it, with curiosity. This tiny, fluffy, moving object -- what is he? Why is he not allowed out so that we can Play? The sweet things do not realize that their pouncing rough-and-tumble would quickly transform him into a lifeless, cold pile of feathers and flesh.

Still, to demonstrate his Prowess, he pleasures himself relentlessly. Until I pluck him from his cage, pry his wing from its place tight against his body, and clip the feathers.

(Just one wing, in case I need to remind him again soon that I Am Boss)

And back in the cage, he is again sweet and docile, fluffing his plumage and chirping gently, sweetly.