This morning, as I walked through the local bushland, I heard a squawking nearby in the bush. I spied a baby parrot on the ground at the same moment my dog saw it. He was gentle, being a Labrador retriever, and brought me the bird unharmed. Unable to fly, and no nest in sight, I cradled him for a moment in both hands. He looked at me with his baby parrot eyes and for a split second I believed we were bonding a tiny bit.
Oh, but the baby pirate's parrot had other ideas. He opened his tiny little can opener of a beak and bit into the softest, most pain generating spot on my hand. He latched on with a death grip and I yelled at the little baby imploring him to let go. This upset the dog who ran up to me and barked loudly. Fortunately this startled that little feathered vice grip and he let go of my hand. He traveled the rest of the way to the animal rescue shelter in my hat.
Which he soiled. He's an ungrateful little parrot, he is. I have no pictures of him. Attached is a photo of one of his relatives. Notice the deadly, blood drawing beak.
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It's all about that moment when metal that hasn't seen the light of day for generations frees itself from the soil and presents itself to me.
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