When we moved, we arranged to turn on the cable at the new place early, so that there would be a short overlap in services. Ostensibly, this was so we would have TV and internet access in the new place before we actually moved, but while we were hanging around for the locks to be changed and things like that. In truth, it was also so we could hand in the old cable remote with the old cable box, and enjoy the brand-spanking newness of a pristine cable remote. Oddly enough, the new box looks like an older model than the one we turned in, but the new remote is in mint condition. So far. The same can't be said for the remote to the new sound system, whose "VCR" button already has a dangling chunk. But hey, it's the 21st century. We don't have a VCR anymore!

Interestingly, the Xbox controller remains intact, despite Harley's best efforts.

We think he purchased a movie, though.

One of Harley's favorite games is Bead Stick.

He sits on your knee and plays with beads on a lollipop stick that you hold for him. I've discussed Toys On A Stick before, see the entry Foot Toys.

This particular stick is strung up with different shaped beads whose holes are bigger than the diameter of the stick. Apart from the pony bead at the bottom to keep everything from sliding off, and the pony bead at the top, which Harley had to struggle with a bit, the rest come off easily. Often, he'll grab a bead in the middle of the stick, and fling the ones above all over the living room with a flick of his head. But occasionally he'll get one, and chew on it for awhile.

This past week was the first time that Harley has seemed really comfortable in the new place since we moved. That is, this was the first week that Harley didn't want to spend most of his days moping, alone in his cage, because Bruce was out of town. When Bruce was home he was fine, spending time in his cage, but also ready to be invited out to go where ever we were going, whether upstairs or downstairs or just over to the living room. It didn't matter who was doing the inviting, he was just as happy to join me as Bruce. But once Bruce left for work, he'd give me Stink Eye when I asked him to step up, and stayed inside his house, occasionally chewing on one of his toys when he thought I wasn't looking.

I tried not to worry about him — after all, moving isn't particularly easy for anyone. And he was happy enough to join me in the evenings to watch TV, and later go upstairs for scritches on the bed. But I'll admit I was relieved this past week when he started joining me during the day for various excursions around the house, me either puttering around trying to sort the rooms, or just carrying him around to look at all the interesting things in the new spaces.

I think two things have made him more comfortable. First, the Finsters are back in the Finsterium. I know they're happier there (despite the stingy baths I've been giving them). They're much more active, and much more vocal. Harley doesn't fly over to their cage like Peanut did, or even lean us over there for a visit (he's much more curious about the things in the cupboards). But I'll bet he's happier now that his pets are settled into the Big House.

Second, Harley has discovered the window in the bedroom. He loves to sit on the sill, and look outside.

We'll go upstairs for at least a little while almost every day. He'll sit there for hours sometimes, looking and listening and occasionally talking while I work on the laptop, do laundry, or otherwise keep myself occupied. I'm convinced this spot is better for him than just sitting in his cage, since there are things to look at, and he gets some sunshine through the screen.

Although we've tried Harley out in other windows, the one in our bedroom is his favorite. It's upstairs, and he probably feels safer higher up. There's just enough activity going on in the cul-de-sac that it's interesting, but it isn't too loud or busy. And even on an overcast day, it's nice and bright. We plan to create some sort of Harley Station here soon, so he'll have toys to play with and things to climb on (for now he just throws the occasional toy off the window sill). We'll definitely have to do this before it gets too cold to keep the window open. But for now he's pretty happy looking out over the neighborhood and learning the wild birds' songs.

Two exciting things happened yesterday: first, the Finsters finally moved back into the Finsterium.
Despite the fact that I now have a good view of the cage (and Jean-Luc isn't lurking behind it), this isn't the best photograph; the plastic film taped to the back of the cage is reflecting badly (still, the versions without the flash were worse), the camera batteries died, and then a big thunderstorm came in before I had a chance to try for more. Another time.

Since we took the cage completely apart for the move, we had the chance to do some minor repairs and give it a good cleaning. No real reason it took us just over a month to move the Finsters in, though. I blame pure laziness, the insanity inherent in moving, and — well — pure laziness. Lucky for the Finsters, guilt finally kicked in.

As usual, I lined the hospital cage door up with the door to the Finsterium, and waited for the birds to leave the cramped, waterless and foodless wasteland for the wide-open Garden of Eden that is the Big House. As usual, I had to wait awhile for the birds to move. Cinnamon was first, after half an hour of thinking. Once in, he made some lovely, happy finch sounds as he flew around to check out all the accoutrements: nest boxes! space to fly! tasty seeds! floor snacks! nice shells! Although the different species of finches likely make slightly different noises, these happy finch sounds always remind me of the sound that R2-D2 makes in Star Wars: A New Hope, when C-3P0 leaves him on Tatooine to deal with the message from Leia on his own. Except that R2-D2's whistles seem sad, while a Finster's chirp is definitely joyful.

After checking everything out, Cinnamon proceeded to be King of the Seed Tower, and tried his hardest to entice Ginger out of the hospital cage with his Hunka Hunka Burning Love song and various other whistles and chirps. It took him a little over 20 minutes, and then it took about an hour and a half for the two birds to take a bath.

And this is where I remembered the main reason why we had the Finsterium in the kitchen in the old apartment — not because it fit better there, or looked better, or was part of the fung shui of the whole thing. No. The reason was the linoleum. The water-resistant linoleum.

Now, the apartment had carpet everywhere except the kitchen and the bathroom, so putting the Finsterium in the kitchen was the obvious choice (the bathroom was too small). But the new place has wood floors everywhere. So far, I've dealt with the water problem by putting plastic computer mats in appropriate places, and wiping up the water splashes when they arrive. This is easier with Harley, because he only takes baths in his water dish about once a month. The Finsters, on the other hand, are happy-go-lucky, bath-taking fiends. I've taped clear plastic to the back of the cage, but short of putting computer mats over most of the den (so attractive!), I'm not sure what to do. So far I've tried simply not giving them much water to bathe in. But that's a little mean. Also, it doesn't work. You'd be surprised how much water can get splashed out of a 3 1/2 inch (mostly) square dish (picture pops) — and just how far that water will go! Well, I'll figure it out. Probably around the same time I learn to deal with cleaning more than one bathroom. Right. Probably never.

Harley was very interested in the whole moving-in process. While he wasn't too keen on going inside the Finsterium, he personally inspected most of the nest boxes, and watched us carefully the whole time.

But having his pets back in their big cage wasn't the most exciting part of Harley's Sunday. Instead, he warmed this English Major's heart by regaling us with a perfect use of language!

As I've mentioned, he knows how to say — in context — "are you ready for bed?" and "are you hungry?" Although, admittedly, that last one is often truncated to "ya hung?" Sometimes, Harley uses the phrase "are you ready for bed" to indicate that he is ready for something else, like joining us on the couch, or going upstairs to play on the bed. (He uses the phrase "here Harley" more specifically when he wants something to eat.)

Last night he was very excited about having dinner, partly because it was Macaroni And Cheese Night, and partly because Bruce was grilling on the patio and we had Harley closed in his cage so he wouldn't be tempted to fly out after him. (Yeah, that's a good story.) The more time went on, the more vocal Harley became about being READY TO GO. Until finally, he came out with the most appropriate combination:

"Are you ready for hung?"

You bet!

A couple of weeks ago one of my regular readers (thanks, Mam Adar!) pointed me to an article about Yosuke, a Congo African Grey that lives in Japan. He escaped from his home and was missing for about two weeks before he was rescued by police and taken to a vet's office where — after settling down for a bit — he told everyone his name and address, and regaled them with a heartfelt rendition of "All Along The Watchtower." (Well, actually, the article doesn't say what the bird sang, but that'd be cool, wouldn't it?) The police checked on the address the bird recited, and Yosuke was reunited with his family. Yahoo! News published the AP story "Lost parrot tells veterinarian his address" on May 21. It's a great story.

In fact, several people pointed me to the piece, and I've heard reports that bosses everywhere printed copies of the article, and quietly left them on the desks of bird lovers. Which suggests interesting things about work dynamics in the United States, but I guess that's a different story.

The article obviously has me thinking about what I might teach Harley to say, in case he gets lost. Having just moved, our new address doesn't seem "permanent" yet, and really, you just never know when you might get uprooted in this economy. Phone numbers are currently more permanent than addresses, and with a bit of planning and attention you can have complete control over an e-mail address.

But in my experience, it isn't easy to teach a bird what to say. Harley arrived in Michigan knowing how to say "are you ready for bed," and "are you hungry." But that last one usually comes out "ya hung?" Which could be somewhat awkward in polite conversation. The phrases I've tried to teach him (like "I'm the bird, gotta love me"), or the things I find myself saying frequently (like "all righty then" [I know, I know], or "you're adorable") never get repeated. Instead, I hear the awkward sighs of a 45-year-old slightly creaky woman getting up from the couch, and "uh huh." All the time.

I've had the best luck with "ch" sounds. Harley arrived knowing how to say "I love you so much" — which, while not something I'd try to teach on my own, is ADORABLE. Over the year he's been here, he's learned how to say "yo soy muy macho," "you're so macho," "you're so immature," and a sound that's a combination of "choo-choo" and alien phaser fire.*

But the other problem is the bird's memory. If he learns this address and I move, do I have to leave forwarding information here for years to come? How many places might I take him over his (hopefully) long life? How many new addresses can I expect him to learn? And wouldn't I rather spend our training time teaching him to say "I'm the bird, gotta love me?"

Take this YouTube video, for example.

Sure, it's great that Smokey has learned to say "Obama, yes we can!" But Senator Obama's new presidential slogan is "change we can believe in." Will Smokey learn to say that? And if Obama becomes president will there be a new slogan for Smokey to learn? And worse (much, much worse) if Obama loses the election, will Smokey's humans go crazy listening to him say "Obama, yes we can!" over and over again?

Yes, I think so!

I'd much rather spend the rest of my life having Harley tell me how immature I am.

* Harley's former mom is welcome to chime in, in case she's the one who taught him to say any of these things!

Harley's fascination with the kitchen faucet continues. And why wouldn't it? It's shiny (albeit a little covered in water spots), it has two perches that both move, and it dispenses water. What fun!


Yeah. So now he wants to be there all the time, his poops keep getting squirtier and squirtier, and he tore off the button that says "Kohler" (marked in pink). It landed down the garbage disposal.

Now on the shopping list are epoxy to try to stick the button back in permanently (hahahahaha), and a drainer thingy to keep stuff from falling down the garbage disposal. (Because then Harley will be able to play with pony beads everywhere!)

Oh, and I need to get a new faucet, as well. The next thing to go will be the aerator. I can tell.

Do they make bird-safe faucets?

Harley likes the little table that sits in front of the couch. No, let me clarify: Harley loves the little table that sits in front of the couch. Oh, sure, the table usually holds his perch, which provides a perfect location for watching TV (picture pops). But mostly, he likes to crouch under it and lurk.

And crouch.

And lurk.

I'm sure the spot is very nest-like, and makes Harley feel secure. Plus, the piping is SO CLOSE and good for chewing. But maybe it also provides a good spot for watching the monsters that are hiding under the rug...or something. What else would hold his interest for fifteen minutes at a time?

Like the alluring cupboard at the old apartment, we've had to curtail Harley's time under the little table. He likes it just a little too much. And even if he weren't likely to nip my fingers when I try to move him, there's that enticing piping to think about.

1. Despite the fact that the Finster cage and its lights-on-timers still aren't set up, Harley knows when 7 a.m. is, and lets us know all about it.

2. Harley can say "potato chip."

3. When small creatures say words clearly and while staring at me over a bowl of potato chips in context, I am just as weak as Bruce is.

It turns out, if you leave Harley clinging to the side of his cage at bedtime, miserable and not ready to go to bed, turn the light out, and walk up the stairs with guilt gnawing at every cell in your body, he will eventually climb around to his Sleeping Perch and stay there, sleeping, for the rest of the night. I had to do that to him last night because he just wouldn't go to bed.

My fault, entirely, for not being Bruce.

This past week, in the new place, Harley has had a hard time going to bed. The trick that's worked the best is to take him up to the bedroom with us, lie on the bed, turn out all the lights except for the TV, and have Bruce give him scritches until he's practically asleep. Then I take him downstairs, deposit him on his Sleeping Perch, run to turn out the light before he can climb off his Sleeping Perch, and go upstairs.

As the week wore on, Harley has gotten closer and closer to Bruce's head for the requisite scritches. What used to be Loves On The Bed (picture pops) have turned into Loves On Bruce's Chest — sometimes Harley will rest his beak right on Bruce's cheek.

As absolutely, amazingly cute as this is, I knew I'd be in trouble when Bruce went out of town. And I was right. It turns out the Loves part was easy last night: after a few stops and starts, Harley grudgingly climbed up onto my chest, and then stayed there, mesmerized, for scritches. But once he realized that I could give him Loves, he sure didn't need me to take him anywhere else. I took him downstairs, he climbed off his Sleeping Perch, I took him back upstairs for more Loves, I took him downstairs again, I used the stick, back and forth, and by this time it was really late and I needed to get some sleep. Without a bird on my chest.

But as it turns out, Harley will eventually climb to his Sleeping Perch if you are mean and callous enough to leave him clinging to the side of his cage, forlorn and unloved, at bedtime. Here's hoping I'm not overcome by guilt tonight.

The next time you move, be sure to hire a couple of really strong men, particularly if one of them is 6' 9". Wow! (That's 1' 3" taller than I've ever wished to be!) It makes the whole process much easier. Mind you, even a couple of strapping young men can't make up for the fact that moving is really annoying. Oh, it's not just the boxes of stuff everywhere, it's also the strangeness of the new space.

The first morning, the Finsters — who are still in the "hospital" cage pending the cleaning and rebuilding of the Finsterium — were seen sleeping inside the bath dish. Inside the bath dish! Poor, damp Finsters. You can pop up a picture of that bath dish here, but don't get your hopes up — we still only have two finches. This photo is from when Ginger and Cinnamon were among the big batch of new Finsters back in September, 2004. Usually when subjected to the cramped quarters of the hospital cage, as many finches as can fit there sleep perched on the entrance to the bath, facing in. And that's where Ginger and Cinnamon have been sleeping since that first night.

The first night, Harley was so nervous about the new place that we had to wait until he was practically asleep before he'd stay on his Sleeping Perch for the night. He still isn't convinced about bed time. And the first morning, Harley was apparently so startled at seeing new surroundings that he fell off his perch. (We can run downstairs very quickly, as it turns out.)

But everyone is starting to settle in now, at least during the day. Here are Bruce and Harley, watching TV, and drinking beer and apple juice. You'll notice I didn't take a picture of them hanging around in their underwear — but they do both have their feet up. We have a new couch for the living room (with piping that's just perfect for curious beaks), but you'll notice Harley is still in the middle of everything.

The living room and the kitchen are set up the best. Our bed is made, but that's about it for the bedroom. The basement is still full of boxes — although the network is set up. The den/bird room won't be completed until the Finsterium gets set up again, which is taking longer than we'd planned. But it's partly their own fault for pooping so much — silly me figured with less than a handful of Finsters in there since the last big cleaning, and several new nest boxes along the way, I wouldn't have to make a whole set of new ones. But I was very, very wrong. How can such tiny creatures poop so much?

Here's Harley on the breakfast bar Harley bar. Along with the counter in the bathroom, and the top of the shower door, this is one of Harley's favorite places to be so far. At first we thought the main attraction to the Harley bar is that he can drop things off of both sides — and that's pretty darn fun! He's dropped spitballs from the box everywhere, and squished carrots from several meals both into the sink and onto the chairs. I'm sure he'd love to throw some pony beads around, but I'm not sure the disposal would handle them very well.

But it turns out that the real attraction of the bar is the faucet. Who knew Harley likes shiny metal things as much as I do? Here he is being KING OF THE FAUCET. Even if he weren't so possessive of this spot that we need to resort to using a stick to get him off it, there are a few obvious reasons why this could be really, really bad.


Go ahead, list them for yourself.

As I predicted, there's still stuff left at the old place. A surprising amount, in fact. It's hard to believe we managed to stuff so much...stuff...into such a small space. Of course, it might not seem like such a mess if there weren't so many spitballs floating around. Everywhere. I can't imagine where they came from.

Can you?