Something's been troubling me for a while and I feel compelled to blog about it - my bird, a psitticine of the cockatiel variety (aptly named Jackson Pollack both for my painter-husband's love of that particular fractal spaz artist, and in tribute to the little guy's ability to decorate any surface in splatters) seems to have developed an unnatural romantic fascination with my right hand. Mind you, I'm right handed, so it's a bit inconvenient when he insists on pressing his suit right about the same time I'm blogging or replying to email or fragging a zombie. I've tried to persuade him that my left hand is just as comely a potential mate, but he's having none of that. As a matter of fact, he actually seems to consider my left hand as his primary competition for my right hand's affections, so if the left hand comes into his field of view while he's making his moves on the right hand, he attacks viciously and with no quarter given. He's quite the little warrior of fluffy love. And before someone calls the ASPCA and accuses me of bird abuse, I've been trying to dissuade him of the whole courtship thing altogether for a few years now, with no success - he apparently feels he has no alternatives and it's spring time, so a bird's gotta do what a bird's gotta do. Maybe we shouldn't paper the bottom of his cage with pages from Vogue...