Lancelot! (the Lovebird)


I've been chained to my computer for the past week, working on three very long days of deposition testimony. Charlie's been in school for a month now and is taking Spanish. "Hola, Paco. Que tal?" Husband has new projects to occupy his every waking moment (don't ask), and Chance the Dog leads a mysterious double life. According to our friend George, he's out saving the world every night (which explains the dark circles under his eyes). So as I'm sitting here working away, I hear the familiar chirps and squawks of Lancelot, our lovebird, and it occurs to me that I've never written about him.


Here are some facts about Lancelot (some are hazy and speculative at best):

1. He was discovered emaciated and unable to fly by Charlie and his friend Gabriel in our front yard when they were in the second grade.

2. People scare him.

3. He can't tell time.

4. He's a feather plucker.

5. He's of the Fischer's variety.

6. His water level must be at the exact right level. If it isn't, he lifts his water cup and slams it down until it meets his specifications.

7. Half of his seed gets tossed uneaten.

8. He thinks that he's an Amazonian Jungle lovebird.

We've had Lancelot ever since Charlie and Gabriel found him one spring day after school. Compared to Rasputin, our parakeet (who we found in the backyard, one rainy day -- yes, our house has some sort of strange magnetic bird attraction), Lancelot is not a people person. He doesn't want us to be too near, but he's happy to have us in the general vicinity. He likes it when we clap or make sharp noises. When we do this unwittingly, he responds with a series of sharp ear-splitting squawks of joy. He's very loud when he wants to be (thus, the Amazon Jungle-bird reference). He can't tell time, and we're often greeted by his outbursts at two, then three, then five, in the morning. This is why we've taken to putting him to bed in the garage every night.

Lancelot was once strikingly beautiful with feathers of red, purple, green, yellow, blue and orange. He still is, from the back. Several years ago, he decided to pluck his feathers in the front. I think he might be an aspiring punk rocker. So he has the look of a plucked chicken. But we don't tell him this. (We don't want to ruin his self-esteem). Lancelot spends his days outside with the outside birds. They sing and he sings back. He's happy in his own little Lancelot way.

Now you know Lancelot the Lovebird.

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