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.
"Meekull, isn't he paying any attention to you? Is that it?" Meekull, still staring wide-eyed at the beautiful stranger, sidestepped closer and, leaning his feathered shoulder against mine through the cage, stared up into my face" as if to say, "He doesn't like me." Who could blame him for feeling so rejected after singing beautifully and never being noticed? "Meekull, honey. You sing beautifully. He's just busy eating." So that he wouldn't feel so alone, I began to make bird sounds (to the best of my ability). Meekull stood up as high as he could, flapped his wings in instant satisfaction, and began twittering and clucking, telling me just what he thought of his rude visitor. Then, he promptly hopped down for a walnut and cranberry snack at the bottom of his cage, his esteem intact. A few seconds later, he was shrilling again. Sometimes, all we need is to be heard.
