Talk to the Hand handmade collage (In memorium, Ivy, a parakeet that everyone hated)
I won't lie: the parakeet and I did not get on well. Perhaps if he hadn't harassed to death his cage mate, our beloved Elise (a male) we might have felt differently. For the longest time, we kept wishing for a hasty demise, but morning after morning his piercing shriek let us know that he was alive and well and not planning on going anywhere anytime soon. More than one person in this abode suggested that I leave a window open to see what would happen. It was too easy a solution and one I could not stomach having regularly witnessed the gruesome handiwork of a peregrin falcon that lives in the eaves of the adjacent building. Years passed and he continued to bite my finger. In the end we reached a kind of rapproachement. I would let him out of his cage to squawk to his heart's content, and he would refrain from attacking me. I could put up with his patter except when he veered into yammering on about politics. His ideas were toxic: four parts knee-jerk Conservative to one part conspiracy theorist. At such times I would lose all patience and call a halt to his diatribes by sweeping him up into the palm of my hand and informing him that "This conversation is over!" A month has passed since his sudden passing. I find that I miss neither the squawking or the scattered birdseed, but I do miss our arguments.