@$%**@@!!! parakeet!!!

I should have known today was going to be one of those days when the Husbandly One woke me up to kiss me before leaving for work.  "Stay in bed today!  Get some rest!" he admonished, referring to the virus that has me currently coughing up my lungs.

Why didn't he just come right out and say, "I curse thee to never get near this bed again for the rest of the day!  Verily, thou shalt not be horizontal again for the next twelve hours!!"

If I'd been more awake, I would have said, "Is there any oxygen on the planet you're from?"

*sigh*

So, ten minutes after he left, I ended up getting up, because I got into a coughing fit that left me curled into a ball, and unable to lay down at all.  

Did I mention we have three kittens?  Three kittens that are almost four months old?

Okay.  So, soon, I hear the Impertinent Daughter stirring, and wait for the inevitable, "What's for breakfast?" cry.  Instead, I hear this ringing, clanging crash, and hysterical bird noises from the kitchen.  This is not reassuring, so I get up and hurry into the kitchen to discover that the parakeet's cage is no longer hanging in the kitchen.  No.  It's on the floor, on its side, and  the three kittens, who had been crouched in "stalk mode" look up, see me, and SCATTER!!

Miss Priss rushes in and says, "WHERE'S WEBBY??"

I look in the cage.  No parakeet.  I look up on the cabinets.  No parakeet.  I look on the floor, expecting mangled remains of bird.  There's Webby, perched calmly on the floor.  Terrific, I thought glumly.  I have to catch her and pick her up.

Webby does not like people.  Webby does not like other birds.  Webby does not like much of anything, really, though she is cheerful enough, just so long as you don't try to touch her.  She'll chirp happily to you, and dance for you, talk, and all that.  But the second you get close to her cage, or even THINK of putting your hand in there to do anything aside from cleaning the cage... she turns into the parakeet version of a rabid Rottweiler on steroids.  With a sore paw.  And a headache.  

The kittens are coming back into the kitchen, so I have no choice.  I gently pick Webby up, holding her cupped in my hands and start speaking reassuringly to her while I turn to the Impertinent Daughter and say, "Set the cage on the floor and put the top back on."  I feel Webby nibbling at my palm, and in any other bird, it would be affectionate.  But Webby?  She's testing to find where the tenderest spot is.

By the way, did I mention I have LARYNGITIS??  As in, no voice whatsoever today?

So, ID blinks and says, "What was that, Mama?"

"Pick up the cage and put the top back on!" I squeak desperately.

She frowns.  "Wha-a-a-a-t??"

Webby is very close to finding the major artery in my hand, I just KNOW it, and I'm trying not to panic, and I say calmly, "Pick... up... the... cage.  Put... the... top... on...NOW!!"

Right at that moment, Webby finds her spot and takes a plug out of my hand.  I yelp, and ID shrieks, then says, "I know, Mom!  I'll pick the cage up and put the top back on so you can just stick her in the cage!!"

If I hadn't already been in excruciating pain from the bird biting the hell out of my hand, I would have banged my head into the counter at that moment.

Webby starts twisting her head to worry at the skin of my palm, like a little terrier, and I'm telling you, the temptation to just squish my hands together was very, very strong, but... I didn't.  (EW!!)  So, the daughter gets the cage set up, and plops the top back on and says, "How do I fasten it?" and I said, "Don't worry about it, just get it on so I can get this damn bird off my hand!!"

As soon as I could, I stuck my hands in the cage and opened them.  Did she hop off immediately and fly to the top of the cage as usual to get away from the crazy humans and cats?  NO!! SHE ATTACKED MY THUMB!!!

Damn bird!!  Next time, I'll let the bloody cats HAVE her!!

Did I mention bird seed, kitten chow, and water all over the kitchen counter and the floor?

*sigh*  You know, the bird belonged to my oldest sister, the Practical Sister.  Her daughter gave the bird to her not long after her husband died, figuring her mom needed companionship.  So she gave her a psycho, anti-social parakeet.  How fitting, then, that it was named after my brother-in-law, who could not stand me (believe me, the feeling was entirely mutual).  The bird barely tolerated the Practical Sister.  The only person the bird likes is my niece, the one who gave her to the Practical Sister.  When PS moved to Arizona, did she give the bird to her daughter, whom the bird likes?  No, because, you see, THAT would make SENSE!  No, she gave the bird to ME.  And sometimes, I have to wonder if that bird is possessed by my late brother-in-law's spirit, because she definitely looks at me with the same jaundiced eye from time to time.

And no, she doesn't want the bird back.  But... she doesn't want me to give it away, either.  And it doesn't help that she's a huge Martha Stewart fan, and watches the Mark Marrone pet segments religiously, so that every time I talk to her and she asks how Webby is doing, she chirps, "You know, parakeets can live up to 15 years if you take good care of them!"

Damn.

Anybody want a cranky, anti-social parakeet with a really, really big cage?  Anybody?

*stalks off to put an ice pack on her swelling hand*