Woodrow the One-Eyed Cockatiel
Woodrow is a little yellow cockatiel with one beady black left eye and
a mass of lumpy grey scar tissue where his right eye is supposed to be.
No one is exactly sure how Woodrow came into our abode. He just sort of
showed up one day when no one was paying attention. I think there was
some talk about winning him in a hand of poker from an opium smuggling
Malaysian pirate with a peg-leg intricately carved into the shape of a
cloven hoof... To be honest I wasn't paying attention. Point is,
even with his mysterious be-pirated background he's quickly become part
of our happy little domicile. There are only two little quirks that
make us all mortally afraid of him:
A). Woodrow loves sitting on shoulders, as is befitting a bird of his station.
There are a number of contributing factors that make this a huge problem. First of all, he's smarter than us. We can't keep him in his cage. We try, but it never works. For some bizarre reason the designers of his cage built all these little doors and hatches into it, and he knows how to open them all. The one time we attempted to lock down the cage with those little luggage locks he managed to pry the entire top of his cage off and dump it over the side. Another problem is we can't clip his wings. Again, we've tried, but there are only so many times you can almost lose a finger to a four ounce bird before you just stop trying in order to preserve a thin facade of masculinity. We've come to accept the fact that there's always the small chance Woodrow will decide he's had enough time sitting in his cage and rapidly hunt down the nearest shoulder for perching.
"Aw isn't that cute. He wuvs you all!" No. It hurts. Here's the problem as we see it: Woodrow has yet to figure out that people are connected to shoulders, and unfortunately,
B). Woodrow violently hates people.
The typical incident usually starts after he's perched. Normally we avoid him, he screeches and throws sunflower seeds at us, we all get along fine. But he also has that damned perching instinct. So, somehow, he gets on your left shoulder (it's always the left shoulder). Well, you're screwed. It's only a matter of time before he sees your head with his good eye and launches his attack.
"Ho ho! It's only a little bird, what can he do to me?" Well, Woodrow goes for the fleshy parts of your head: lips, nostrils, eyelids, ears. You'd just better hope he doesn't notice that earring. You can't wipe him off your shoulder either. Three points of contact, like a rock climber. He's also perfected this maneuver where he'll latch onto any convenient piece of your face and swing around to your other shoulder like Errol Flynn only to attempt to gnaw off strategic bits of that side of your face. Even if you attempt to knock him across the room, he'll fly back in an endeavor to reclaim his shoulder. The only thing we've found that will stop his onslaught is to curl into the fetal position and hope he doesn't get in a fight with your hands.
We are all well aware it's pathetic for an entire group of full grown men to be mortally terrified of a six inch bird, and that it would probably be a good idea to gift him to the animal shelter. But Woodrow has a special place in our hearts for the simple reason that he can reduce a seven-foot-tall gymrat to a cowering heap in the corner while we all offer helpful suggestions like "Close your eyes, idiot.", "Watch the nose stud.", and "Good Christ you're going to need stitches for that!".
[Update: While ThingsIHate was down we sold Woodrow the One-Eyed Cockatiel to some poor credulous family of four on the sly. Much booze was subsequently purchased. We told them he was good-natured, finger trained, and sometimes he would whistle the Andy Griffith theme (all of which were deplorable lies). I, for one, have no regrets, and I hope they enjoy their new animal companion for years to come.]
A). Woodrow loves sitting on shoulders, as is befitting a bird of his station.
There are a number of contributing factors that make this a huge problem. First of all, he's smarter than us. We can't keep him in his cage. We try, but it never works. For some bizarre reason the designers of his cage built all these little doors and hatches into it, and he knows how to open them all. The one time we attempted to lock down the cage with those little luggage locks he managed to pry the entire top of his cage off and dump it over the side. Another problem is we can't clip his wings. Again, we've tried, but there are only so many times you can almost lose a finger to a four ounce bird before you just stop trying in order to preserve a thin facade of masculinity. We've come to accept the fact that there's always the small chance Woodrow will decide he's had enough time sitting in his cage and rapidly hunt down the nearest shoulder for perching.
"Aw isn't that cute. He wuvs you all!" No. It hurts. Here's the problem as we see it: Woodrow has yet to figure out that people are connected to shoulders, and unfortunately,
B). Woodrow violently hates people.
The typical incident usually starts after he's perched. Normally we avoid him, he screeches and throws sunflower seeds at us, we all get along fine. But he also has that damned perching instinct. So, somehow, he gets on your left shoulder (it's always the left shoulder). Well, you're screwed. It's only a matter of time before he sees your head with his good eye and launches his attack.
"Ho ho! It's only a little bird, what can he do to me?" Well, Woodrow goes for the fleshy parts of your head: lips, nostrils, eyelids, ears. You'd just better hope he doesn't notice that earring. You can't wipe him off your shoulder either. Three points of contact, like a rock climber. He's also perfected this maneuver where he'll latch onto any convenient piece of your face and swing around to your other shoulder like Errol Flynn only to attempt to gnaw off strategic bits of that side of your face. Even if you attempt to knock him across the room, he'll fly back in an endeavor to reclaim his shoulder. The only thing we've found that will stop his onslaught is to curl into the fetal position and hope he doesn't get in a fight with your hands.
We are all well aware it's pathetic for an entire group of full grown men to be mortally terrified of a six inch bird, and that it would probably be a good idea to gift him to the animal shelter. But Woodrow has a special place in our hearts for the simple reason that he can reduce a seven-foot-tall gymrat to a cowering heap in the corner while we all offer helpful suggestions like "Close your eyes, idiot.", "Watch the nose stud.", and "Good Christ you're going to need stitches for that!".
[Update: While ThingsIHate was down we sold Woodrow the One-Eyed Cockatiel to some poor credulous family of four on the sly. Much booze was subsequently purchased. We told them he was good-natured, finger trained, and sometimes he would whistle the Andy Griffith theme (all of which were deplorable lies). I, for one, have no regrets, and I hope they enjoy their new animal companion for years to come.]