Meekull's hop-skipping from branch to branch inside his cage. Flit-hop-chirp-flit-hop-chirp-flit-hop-chirp, he goes. It's driving me a little nuts.

"Hi, Meekull.", I say as he lands on my head, then my arm, then the back of my hand, and then my head again. He stands stock still, then rustles around in my hair a bit. "Meekull, honey. What are you doing up there?" He doesn't respond. He usually chitters back. Just when I start to worry he's going to relieve himself (which he's never done on my head and only once on my hand), he starts trilling, as if my head is all the world's stage. LOL!

Meekull loves to sing loudly. Sometimes, it's constant and it's kind of like listening to a child constantly blow a whistle over and over and over, the kind that Rose blew to notify the watchmen looking fo survivors in the movie Titanic. During these moments, I often shout out, "Meekull honey. You sing so pretty!" It seems to satisfy him enough to give me a reprieve. But at other times, it comes across in his little birdie mind as incentive to keep belting out his song. Oh my. I think Meekull would be considered loud even if he was singing in the whole outdoors.

Omg! Meekull flew out of the bathroom door behind me and fluttered wildly around the kitchen! He finally realized I was calling him to my shoulder, landed on my head, and clutched at my hair while I walked him back into the bathroom! LOL! Thank God Blinker was oblivious! Meekull spent 5 minutes on my shoulder in the bathroom, repeating the story (over and over) in "bird chirp".

Meekull has been standing on one leg a lot lately. I often see him all fluffed, still as a statue, with his eyes softly opening and closing. I just KNEW something was wrong with him and dreaded finding out what. It turns out, Meekull is relaxed. Birds stand on one leg when they are comfy or sleepy (hence, the slow-blinking eyes). They also do it to cool off, encourage circulation, and give their leg a rest (like we do). All good stuff.

Meekull was either born with a lame claw, or it was damaged when his nest was attacked by our cat when he was only hours old. We'll never know for sure. But because his claw curls sideways at the ankle and he has only one claw to grab with, he loses his balance and slips easily on many surfaces. I had to make notches in store-bought bird perches, provide larger branches for him to sleep on, and ensure his skinny cage bars were covered for landing when he was out of his cage. Meekull is turning one year old this month. For his birthday, I nailed a skinny branch from a Madrone tree to the wall on the indoor porch. I could see him looking at it, but he was avoiding it. After a few taps on the branch and a bit of encouragement (actually, a lot of encouragement). Meekull finally made an attempt, successfully landed, grabbed a skinny branch, and held on. Upon receiving much praise and applause for his accomplishment, he proceeded to make a few more landings, some wobbly and some perfect, but he never fell. When he finally landed back atop his cage, his little mohawk raised, signaling his excitement. Yay! He's growing up!

Meekull's on my shoulder. I bend my head and smooch a little wing. He hop-skips down my outstretched arm, pauses at my shirt cuff, tilts his head sideways and looks at me, hops back up and softly pecks my bottom lip before he flies off across the room. Uhmmm. Was I just kissed by a bird? 

Meekull got his talons clipped yesterday. Because his lame claw points backward toward his chest and makes him trip on soft fabric, I had to clip his little birdie "toenails". First, I had to catch him. It took a surprise lunge with a pillowcase to achieve that mission (o-m-g) but now, he's all manicured. The thing is, he's having to get used to the new feel and he's slip-sliding anyway. Poor little guy. Yesterday, he was full of attitude over it, refusing to go back in his cage and yelling hysterically if I got too close (yes, he yells). Today, we were back to being best buds. He quietly sat on my shoulder for almost 10 minutes, neither of us speaking, looking out the window, while he gave me "haircuts" (little nibbles around my hairline). I almost fell asleep. He's such a good barber.

Meekull has been taking "bird" baths in a white plastic jar cap since he was a fat, fuzzy baby with a stumpy tail. Here's the thing. He's now a teenager, full grown, and still splashing around in this cap with no room for his grown-out wings and tail feathers. Today, I gave him a larger tub to bathe in (the plastic bottom piece of a store-bought salad). He hopped over, peered in, jumped back, screeched, and stared at me as if to say, "Are you f@&#ing kidding me right now?" I watched him do this over and over again. I put his old bathtub cap inside the new one. Disgusted, he flew away to his perch on the other side of the bathroom. I gave in. I removed the new tub and replaced it with the old one, and he flew right back, hopped in, and proceeded to do his "hoppy" dance until he was sopping wet. I swear I saw him grinning!

"Meekull?" I get no response, as he skips across the floor, back turned, in mock forage mode. I raise my arm (his often-used perch). "Meekull, come." No response. "Meeekulll...commmmmme." He hops-skips out of sight around the laundry basket as if he's the last live thing on the planet. "Meekull. Papers." His little body races toward mine across the floor, tiny claws clicking as fast as they can (as if he's forgotten he can fly) to grab a tiny piece of toilet tissue from my fingers as I lean down to offer it. Ahhh...I DO exist, after all.

It was Meekull's bath time. I prepare everything according to routine. I laid the pillowcase on the wicker towel hamper (his beach towel) and placed his little swimming pool (his large white plastic jar cap) in the center. It's full of water (about 1/4 inch deep). He flutters down from his cage, lands on his towel, and eagerly hops into his pool. He just as quickly hops right back out, squawking as he goes. He's standing beside his pool, looking up at me with his head tilted, still cursing. So I tapped his pool and said, "Meekull, bath." He hops back in and right back out. I'm standing there scratching my head. He's looking at me and then back at the water but won't budge. Then, I understood. I picked up his pool, dumped it out, and replaced it with warmer water. "Meekull, bath." He hops back in, wiggles, and, eyes closed, sinks his tiny birdie bob in the warmth. I could almost hear him whispering, "Ahhhhhh."

Every afternoon, Meekull's cage is rolled onto the enclosed front porch, where he looks out the window for a time at the sky, the trees, birds, squirrels, insects, and occasional cars going by. Meekull normally begins his ritual by happily hopping up to his highest branch closest to the window pane for the best possible view before I turn to walk away. Yesterday, he did just that but immediately hopped back to the branch inside the cage closest to my shoulder. "What?" I asked. He shuffled his little body closer as he turned his head the other way and peered down, motionless, at the window sill. Then I understood but kept quiet. After a moment or two, he tilted his head back up and looked at me like he does when he has a question (Juncos have many human-like gestures). "Oh", I said to him softly. "That's Christmas." He had been surprised when he'd seen his windowsill decorated in ornaments. "It's your first Christmas, Meekull. You're OK. Yeah." He did a little happy dance, checked out the rest of the porch decorations, nestled his mohawk after blinking into my eyes a few times, and flew up to his perch, where he began watching the world outside. Sometimes, even the tiniest of God's creatures need reassurance.

It's Meekull's daily "flight time" in the bathroom. He lands on his blanket atop his cage, a few inches taller than me. I'm tippy-toeing, trying to see him. I see the top of his black feathered head at the corner of the cage. He sees me see him and scurries to the other side. I walk to the other side and tip-toe to get a look. I see him peering at me right before he scurries to the middle out of sight. I walk back around to the other side again. When I see his dark little head peeking this time, I say, "Peek." He darts away somewhere on the blanket. I can't see him, so I crouch down and return to the other side. As I slowly lift up to catch him off-guard, he's already bent over the blanket, head cocked sideways, peeking down at me as if to say, "I see you!" before he scurries to the other side again. Now, I'm saying, "Peek!" every time I see him, and I swear he's chuckling as he's running. Meekull likes to play Hide-and-Seek!

Every once in a while, I share a sandwich with Meekull. He gets a tiny crumb of crust, which he loves. He often drops his treasures and has to flutter to the bottom of his cage to retrieve them. It's quite the game, at times. I say "Uh, oh. You dropped it." He gives me a sideways glance and down he goes, hopping from one branch to another until he finally lands on his "rug" to search for his morsel. Today, I offered a crumb. He carefully took it in his tiny beak, hop-skipped across his tree limb (twig) and placed it in his food dish. He looked back at me so pleased with himself I had to chuckle. Then, he savored it. Oh...my...goodness!

I glance across the living room just in time to see Meekull traveling sideways across his perch to the corner of his cage, away from the big window his cage is in front of (one of his happy spaces). He's nervously bobbing and chittering. I walk over, bend down, and ask, "Meekull, what's wrong?" I figured his tummy was aching again. He looks up at me and, then, out the window, drawing closer to the cage bars and my cheek as if to hide. I look in the direction he's looking. There on the porch is a stray black cat munching rescue treats. Meekull looks back at me, his little black eyes wide. And he starts bobbing again. I understood him perfectly. He was exclaiming, "I don't know that one." Needless to say, I rolled him away to his other happy space, where he settled into his feathers once more.

Meekull had been shrilling (singing) loud and strong for nearly a half hour while watching his "wilding" family outside the window from the bars of his cage. Suddenly, it got quiet. I waited, figuring he was catching his breath for round two. No song came. I looked across the room and saw Meekull sitting quietly on his perch, wings stretched downward behind his back. The stance would have seemed almost forlorn if he had been a human. I walked over to the side of the cage, bent, and peered in at him. "Meekull, honey. What's wrong?" I asked. He looked at me and then looked back at the object of his attention, a beautiful Junco pecking birdseed on the porch railing, completely undistracted and oblivious to Meekull's song-making. I watched as Meekull admired him. Then, Meekull looked at me, shuffled his feathers back into shape, and looked back at his beautiful male relative.

The sun has gone down and daylight is fading quickly. Meekull is singing, his head thrown back, his beak open, to belt out his song as shrilly as he can. "Meekull, honey. You sing so pretty." He repeats the verse. "It's almost night-night time." He stops and peers in my direction. It's bedtime. He flounces and flutters as the cage wheels catch on carpets on his way to "bed". He considers the nightly ride to the corner of the bathroom a circus ride. Then comes his blanket. He loves his bird-patterned fleece blanket. It's tents his cage and provides cozy comfort. Before pulling the blanket down over the front of his cage, Meekull hops to the topmost branch and does a little dance. It's his latest thing. He puffs himself into a ball, spreads his wings slightly, and vibrates in pure delight. I call it his shiver dance. I reciprocate by fluttering my fingers in front of him. We go a few rounds until he's satisfied. Once done, he hops up to his bed, the highest corner branch in his cage. Meekull huddles down, his soft tummy feathers covering his little feet. "Night, night, Meekull. I love you too." He cocks his head and whispers a little tune so softly I almost miss it, right before he tucks his little beak into his velvety chest. I draw the blanket and he sleeps.

Last week, while the sun was out and the temperatures were warmer, I rolled Meekull's cage onto the front porch to get some fresh air while I fed his "wildling" family. One of the Juncos from his family tribe flew up and latched on to the outside of Meekull's cage before flying into the enclosed porch (where Meekull's cage often sits) to peek around. I missed the whole event (Josh told me about it), but I did get to see Meekull's reaction. Talk about excited! He was flitting from branch to branch, chirping up a storm. I can only imagine what it must have been like to have "someone" visit. More recently, as I was doing dishes, a Junco flew before my kitchen window and hung there like a hummingbird for a few seconds, staring at me all the while. Juncos can do that. If I'm not mistaken, the Junco gang is gathering curiosity about the little crooner who lives here.

I came home this past week after being gone for a couple of hours. When I walked in the door, Meekull was so excited to see me that he squats, shimmies, and shakes his little body to the tips of his feathers, like a dog wagging its tail. So I put my arms to my sides, wiggle my fingers, and shake a little. He watches and does it back. So I do it again. He mimics me. It's becoming a regular thing between us. Oh, my goodness. This little bird knows how to steal my heart.

I was in the bathroom with Meekull while he was enjoying his daily flying session. I'm not sure how it happened, but I suddenly choked on my own spit. I couldn't breathe and couldn't stop coughing at the same time. My eyes were watering so bad it looked like I was crying. Meekull, like all birds, flits around nervously at noises and movements. Not this time. This little one sat on my shoulder the whole time and would not move. I was facing the bathroom mirror, and while wondering if I might pass out, I could see him on my shoulder, leaning sideways, watching me intently. Still, I coughed and coughed. When I finally caught my breath, he flew off. A couple minutes later, I coughed again to clear my throat. He came right back and huddled under my left ear. You can't tell me these little creatures don't understand when "someone's" in trouble. All I can say is "Wow".