To a good home

Since acquisition of Tiny, Byron has become rather depressed.

He spends his days chirping incessantly -- not the sweet chirps of a happy bird, but the kind of frantic chirps that make you realize that Maya Angelou did, in fact, know why the caged bird sings. And now, so do I.

When he is quiet for a few moments, it is because he is fanatically pleasuring himself.

These are not the marks of a happy bird.

But Tiny thinks he is a darling, fluffy, moving toy, and would gleefully pounce him and then dejectedly miau at me when the ball of feathers no longer responded to her prodding.

This would be a very sad day, and so Byron has been relegated to his cage very much more often than previously. I would be depressed, too, if I were never allowed to leave the walls of my tiny apartment.

For his safety and well being, I have arranged an adoption for him. Because I do not want him to be a victim of Tiny's enthusiasm; but perhaps more importantly, the indicators of his depression (the chirping, the masturbation) are making me crazy, and in moments of great frustration, I have been sorely tempted to wring his tiny neck.

And so, Byron will return to the home of the woman who raised him from a tiny egg. She has stopped raising lovebirds (at least, on the scale to which she raised them previously), but has five as pets -- three girls and two boys -- with whom Byron can make dear friends, or sweet, sweet love.