Too busy for my legs
Louie, our blue-and-gold macaw, has a new song and it goes something like this: "I'm too busy for my legs, too busy for my pits, too busy for my back. So busy it almost hurts. I'm too busy for your petting, too busy for your peanuts, and I'm too busy for this song."

Pressed for time, Louie no longer can devote as many hours a day to pulling out her feathers as she once did. She's too busy watching Phoebe, chasing Phoebe, trying to bite Phoebe - where does the day go? - to pluck.

I can tell she misses it. With Phoebe upstairs right now, for instance, Louie is catching up on chores, filling my left shoulder with dandruff and small blue feathers as I type.

Soon, though, Phoebe will mosey downstairs to see what's up and Louie will ask to be let down on the floor to monitor her movements and once again preening will have to wait.

As a result, Louie has more feathers on her legs these days than she's had in years.

Upon further checking, I discovered that the down feathers inside her wings and on her back have returned - nice white fluffy cottonballs where there once was bald skin. It's so much more festive to have a parrot with feathers this time of year.

We owners of pluckers know that change - a trip, more baths, moving into a new house - can throw a wrench into the cycle and stop feather picking for at least a while. Who knew a little brown dog could have such a salubrious effect?

So while Louie and Phoebe's official relationship continues to be that of enemies, it's more of a sheepdog-versus-Wile E. Coyote dynamic (contention during day, clock out at 5 and go have a beer) than unbridled hostility, and it seems to be doing Louie good.

Chihuahuas need supervision, and it just doesn't leave a whole lot of time to sit around arranging feathers.

Until it gets dark, that is. That's different. We might profess our loathing of them by day, but at night, we like cages because they're safe.

Admit it. When shadows fall and your feathered darling has gone to bed, does not the cage transcend its bad rep as a necessary evil and become a welcome sanctuary? You don't have to worry about wanderlust or predators or not knowing exactly where your pet is or what he's doing after hours, unlike a certain cat. You know he's tucked behind a nice strong set of bars and you can go to your own bed believing that in the morning he will be exactly where you left him the night before, and all in one piece.

For a few tense minutes the night Phoebe escaped, I was sure I had made a grave mistake in straying from a pet I knew - birds - and owning an animal I could not keep in a cage at night. I had let Phoebe out, she had immediately been set upon by a raccoon, and now she was running somewhere loose in the neighborhood, who knew how badly hurt.

Fortunately, I could follow her by the screams.

I ran down the side of the house and opened the back gate that Phoebe had somehow scaled in a super-canine effort. "Phoebe!" I called, standing in the front yard at midnight. "Phoebe!"

A whimper came from somewhere close by. I looked up and saw her standing on the porch. She had simply circled the house and run up the front steps. Good girl! Aside from a violent case of the shakes, she was fine.

We had one more raccoon incident. For a while, we kept Phoebe's carrier inside the back door for convenience. Not long after I crated her one night, she set up the same sobbing scream. I let her out. She stood there stiff-legged, screaming at the carrier.

Paul sat up in bed, annoyed. "What happened? Did you step on her?" In the early days we often tread on her tiny Chihuahua toes with our clodhoppers. Even Louie, our blue-and-gold macaw, knew how to stay out of the way better than Phoebe did.

"No!" I was mystified. "I think she's gone insane. All of a sudden she's terrified of her own carrier."

I thought maybe letting her go outside might calm her down so I unlocked the door, flipped on the porch light and raised the shade like I always do, so I could watch her do her business through the window. There standing on its hind legs looking through the door inside at us was the raccoon. Phoebe screamed, I screamed, we all screamed except for the raccoon who wheeled and loped back into the gloom, probably muttering to himself.

I told a coworker who fosters feral cats about our wildlife problem. "Raccoons are like dogs with hands," he observed. "Smart - and they can grab stuff with their paws." He smiled sinisterly and turned back to the game he was playing on his computer.

Peaceful coexistence
At almost eight pounds - twice as big as she was when she came home from the shelter - Phoebe is still raccoon-snack size, but able to defend herself against Louie, who has bitten her only once since my last blog entry. For about a week Phoebe's scrawny rump sported a marble-size lump. Underneath her short brown hair the lumpy area was red and raw looking.

Aside from this violence, all has been calm. Most evenings find me, Paul, Louie and the dog all vying for couch space. Louie and Phoebe keep their distance, the former perching on Paul's chest while the latter curls up at our feet. Each, especially Louie, are quick to notice any petting of the other that becomes gratuitously one-sided. This instantly inspires keen jealousy and for Louie, the additional desire for swift revenge, which she attempts to exact by rushing at Phoebe with an open beak. Phoebe hops off the couch and waits for Louie to cool off before returning and curling up again at our feet. This happens maybe 20 times.

Phoebe is nothing if not a dog of hope. She lays her squeaky toys at Louie's feet one by one and assumes the play position, lowered chest resting over outstretched paws, her rear end thrust into the air, tag wagging. In a good mood, Louie might grab a rubber ball in her beak and release it before backing away.

The other day, the until-now unthinkable happened. As we watched, breaths held, wary beak and curious nose touched ever so briefly, making friendly contact for the very first time.

I used to have dreams in which Nelson, my chattering lorie, and Louie, whom Nelson hated, were pals. They had adventures like a couple of Disney characters and later, perched side by side, preened each other affectionately. I would wake up once again full of hope for something that, unfortunately, was completely species-istically impossible for a lory. It was like asking a piranha to cuddle.

But Louie and Phoebe? Who knows?

Get yer Your Birds Contest results right here
You guys! You really gave the November-December 2007 photo contest, our last shoot-out of the season, your absolute all. Trying to pick just two winners from all the great pictures we received was more painful than a hard nip from a macaw with a bad 'tude. But choose we did and we think you'll love the latest picture page.

First prize goes to Erin McGarry for her eye-popping portrait of Sam, her lesser white-front Amazon. Erin wins $50 of bird supplies from The Perch Store.

In second place is CJ Banfill's colorful closeup of Keiki, a greenwing macaw. CJ receives a $25 gift certificate from The Perch Store. Congratulations, Erin and CJ!

To see all the entrants, almost 50 total including a great clutch of Honorable Mentions and a big flock of Runner-Ups, fly on over to the November-December 2007 edition of Your Birds.

Love to take pictures of your parrots? For guidelines on how to enter the January-February 2008 competition, see the bottom of the contest page. Good luck!

Each passing day the interspecies gap closes more. Phoebe pounces on Louie's long, blue tail feathers less often. Louie occasionally lets Phoebe walk by with a warning - a wide opening of the beak - instead of giving chase.

Louie's resentment is on simmer. For her part, Phoebe has lost a good deal of her initial interest in befriending someone suffering from such obvious self-esteem issues. She still likes to race circles around Louie to blow off steam but I can tell she has become less invested in developing a warm relationship. Hey, if this blue-and-gold chick is too passive-aggressive to enjoy a squeaky toy dropped at her pigeon-toed reptilian feet, no skin off Phoebe's cold, wet nose. She will take her rubber ball and play somewhere else.

Phoebe is now twice her original size when she came to us at five months, which surprised us for some reason. Out of the habit of owning a dog, we had forgotten that puppies keep growing until a year, sometimes 18 months into the game. No longer quite as bite-size as she was at four pounds, Phoebe can stand up to a head-on attack with no lasting damage. Plus, we no longer worry as much about outside animals. Raccoons, for instance.

Have you ever found yourself in the middle of an altercation between a teacup Chihuahua and a seven-foot-tall raccoon? It makes your heart go pitter pat.

Outside noises have never particularly bothered Louie or our other birds. Phoebe on the other hand is on constant alert for the resounding thud of a leaf. A largish mammal snuffling around on the other side of the wall makes her go berserk. But said large mammals come around less often now. I think we got to be just too much of a pain for them to deal with.

Here's what happened. When Phoebe was still in the throes of housebreaking I would leave her crate just inside the back door for convenience. Before turning in, usually around midnight, I would flip on the back porch light and let her loose in the back yard to do her business before locking her up for the rest of the night.

One night in late June I was the on-duty doorperson, as usual, waiting for Phoebe to wander back inside, when we both heard a twig snap in the dark back of the yard where the porch light does not reach. Responding instantly to my verbal command, "Phoebe, come here!", she ran toward the sound and was engulfed in darkness. A second later she was ululating as only a small dog can, which is to say it was a pulsing, flesh-crawling, spine-freezing screech that seemed to go on forever. Another second later this was replaced by the mournful sob that all brave movie dogs make when they have just been dealt a mortal blow by a bear or a cougar.

I was just about to plunge into the darkness myself when who should reappear but Phoebe, flying past me at supersonic speed, tail tucked, in the opposite direction down the brick walkway. Before I could say another word, the raccoon that had been chasing her popped out of the darkness as well and there we were, close enough to shake hands. An awkward moment, that. Poor guy, instead of enjoying Mexican that evening he had found me, another screamer. I yelled, he stood up, wheeled around and ran back into the vegetable garden where I could hear him go over the fence.

Phoebe had decided to exercise the same caution. Her sobs were getting farther and farther away now. We still don't know how she managed to scale a six-foot-tall gate, but she was doing an excellent job of putting distance between herself and the raccoon whose butt she so lately had boasted of kicking. If I couldn't find her and stop her, she would be in the next town by sunrise and Louie would lose the only sister she had ever known.

Actually, Phoebe, our new dog, had no intention of hurting Louie, our macaw; she just wanted to play with her. Of course Louie had no way of knowing that. Instead of putting her in the mood to frolic, Phoebe's playful advances were bringing out Louie's pessimistic side, the one that was telling her she was about to be devoured. Louie obviously was seeing her life flash before her eyes - if not the old one, which she was fond of, then a new, not-so-wonderful existence in which she was expected to share her turf and her people with a dog. This seemed to make her furious.

After reading my last entry, a couple of readers wrote to say they thought letting Phoebe and Louie loose on the floor together was a bad idea. "Weren't you afraid the dog would bite Louie?" one asked.

Not really. I must have failed to make clear just how small and sweet-natured Phoebe is. When we got her, she weighed 3.9 pounds. Even now, at almost 7 pounds, she's still a puppy and a pathological Good Girl. No one is a stranger. She strains at her leash to meet the kid with a mohawk who's walking two blocks away. She can't stand to miss out on greeting every single human being, dog, cat, squirrel and sparrow that comes into her field of vision, which means she spends most of her waking hours groveling on her belly and furiously wagging her tail.

Unbearably, ecstatically impressed with Louie, Phoebe's fondest desire was to kiss her, and possibly wrestle with her if the delectable new stranger was in the mood. Louie wasn't having it.

I did have my concerns that if Phoebe ever actually mouthed Louie, a light bulb might go on over her head: "Hey, this tastes like chicken!" But mainly, once I saw them together, it was Phoebe I worried about. Louie was ferocious in her desire to kick Phoebe's butt, and woe unto us if we got in the way. Which we did - had to, on a number of occasions in the first few weeks.

Phoebe quickly became lazy about her interactions with Louie. She got into the bad habit of turning her back on this bird that was bigger than she was; sometimes it was our fault because we were calling her or distracting her with a toy. Louie relished these moments of inattention on Phoebe's part because it meant an opening; Phoebe's lightening fast reflexes were on idle. Sometimes Louie would feign disinterest in Phoebe's presence until she could sidle up close enough to bite.

Jealousy is a green, green thing, with blue and yellow feathers, a white face patch and flashing black eyes.

My left Achille's tendon now bears an ugly purple crescent where I took a bullet for Phoebe when she wasn't paying attention. I got this particular scar from thrusting my foot between dog and bird. I thought Louie would respect an entire human leg more than she would my hand reaching in to protect Phoebe at the last moment but I was wrong. Louie's beak closed on the back of my ankle and I shook her off, screaming. The blood flowed. I limped for two days.

A couple of days after the ankle incident, Louie tore into my right index finger during a similar intervention.

Eventually Louie connected with her intended target. One evening in the living room, as Phoebe ran playful rings around her, Louie bit Phoebe's curly little tail and sent her screaming with injured appendage clamped between her legs. Phoebe couldn't figure out where this sudden pain had come from. She climbed into my lap confused, trembling and crying.

The next time, Paul was petting Phoebe from the couch, his hand resting on her head, when Louie saw her chance. She made a rush over Paul's stomach and reached over the edge of the couch and bit Phoebe's tail again. This time I thought I could see an actual dent in the white tip, but Phoebe's short coat of hair was doing a remarkable job of protecting her from lasting damage.

The next incident was the scariest for all concerned. By now Phoebe's pounces had lost some of their playful innocence. Whether she was beginning to view Louie as a nasty playmate who deserved less than complete consideration or was simply becoming bolder I don't know, but Phoebe had devised her own game of Russian roulette wherein she sped past Louie as fast and as closely as she could come without actually touching her. Mere millimeters separated them during some of the closest encounters. They were frankly beautiful acrobatic maneuvers, some of them, with Phoebe gracefully twisting her little body out of the way at the last moment like an Olympic pole vaulter. I admit Paul and I were somewhat mesmerized by the unique entertainment value. We seemed helpless to put a stop to it, at least not until Phoebe had given us another magnificent performance.

But one evening, when Phoebe had finished her precision leaps over Louie's head and was simply standing in front of her, panting happily and occasionally prancing into and back out of biting range, Louie lunged at just the right moment and fastened herself onto Phoebe's lower jaw. I had a clear view of Louie's maxilla buried in Phoebe's soft lower palate. Louie had her pinned open like a patient in the dentist's chair trying to answer a question with a mouth full of instruments.

Phoebe's screams convinced Louie to let go quickly, however, and Phoebe ran for the comfort of my lap. I expected major damage, spurting arteries, reconstructive surgery even. But when Phoebe finally calmed down enough to allow me to pry her mouth open I could see nothing wrong, not even a drop of blood.

This proved to be a turning point in Louie and Phoebe's relationship and none too soon in coming. Louie had finally made her mark and Phoebe was paying attention.

A bad case of adopter's remorse was setting in and I wasn't sure what to do about it. I had never equivocated over an animal before. I am, or at least I was, the kind of person who welcomed all manner of creatures into her home, be it dog, cat, bird, lizard. Somewhere down the years I had lost the desire to have every kind of pet and in large numbers.

After Phoebe's scheduled operation the next day my curiosity got the better of me and I called the vet to check on her. It was the least I could do.

"She's doing great! You can come and get her."

I'd expected her to be laid up at least a couple of days at the vet's. Sighing heavily I promised we'd be there that afternoon. The vet's office was in an iffy part of Oakland, not far from our house as it turned out, but somehow Mapquest thought it would be better if we approached our destination by driving as far in the other direction as possible first, then doubling back. It took us 30 minutes to get there, 10 to get home.

The vet was a strange little man who was very taken with the size of Phoebe's ovaries. "They were so tiny!" he gushed. "I almost couldn't find them!"

He went into the back to get Phoebe. When he returned he stuck his head around into the opening of the office's inner window, which was something like a teller's window at a bank, and said, "It's a boy dog, right?"

Paul and I looked at each other blankly. Was this some sick castration joke? "No," I blurted.

"Ha! Gotcha!" The vet guffawed. "You should have seen the look on your faces! I like to joke around!" He handed us a small pink carrier through the window. "Here's your girl. Look familiar?"

I lifted the towel and glimpsed a tan-and-white creature the size of a healthy sewer rat hobbling around inside the carrier, tail tucked between its legs. Yes, that was our dog.

I held the carrier on my lap on the way home so I could peek under the towel every few minutes. Each time Phoebe wagged her small curly tail a few beats, as if to say that even though we had done this to her, she bore no hard feelings. At home we took her out and inspected the long belly incision, which was sewn up with stiff black plastic sutures that looked extremely painful. Phoebe was happy nonetheless and pranced and raced around the downstairs bedroom with amazing athleticism for someone in her condition, stopping just long enough in mid-flight to leave a few drops on the carpet.

"No!" Paul and I shouted in unison. This would be our pattern for the next few weeks: Phoebe urinating in mid-leap before we could stop her. This would happen about every 10 minutes. She also peed in her carrier at night. She had come with wee-wee pads but I was loathe to use them, so every time it happened I took her to the patio bricks outside. "This is your bathroom," I told her sternly, "not our house."

Louie, our blue-and-gold macaw, went berserk the minute we walked in the door. Although she hadn't even seen Phoebe yet, she could divine the presence of another animal in the house, one that was receiving attention and adulation and sweet encouragements, judging from our syrupy voices.

For the entire day, Louie screamed and paced in her cage. At one point she fell off her perch, which caused her to bump her head and exhibit concussion symptoms for a few minutes. It wasn't the first time she'd rung her bell, but this time I felt especially guilty because it was my fault.

Phoebe heard Louie's racket and was just as eager to find the source, scratching at the closed door and whining. They were like two halves of a magnet desperately seeking one another and the only things keeping them apart were Paul and me.

Our plan was to introduce them gradually, over a period of days, with Phoebe in her carrier when Louie was out, and Louie in her cage when Phoebe came upstairs. The next morning we set Phoebe inside her carrier in the middle of the floor and released Louie. She immediately rushed the crate and began chewing at the plastic slats and thrusting her beak to get at the loathsome beast inside. Phoebe screamed. We snatched Louie off the carrier.

"Maybe we should hold Louie and let Phoebe out," Paul suggested.

Released from her carrier, Phoebe was delighted to see Louie on Paul's lap. She ran and feinted at the new big blue toy and barked her incredibly tiny, high-pitched bark that we already knew meant, "Let's have fun!" Louie struggled to get out of Paul's arms so she could murder Phoebe. Her intentions were crystal clear. Must. Exterminate. Dog.

We could keep them from one another and prolong this obsession of Louie's for weeks or even months, or we could get it over with. We chose the latter. Hearts pounding, we put both on the floor, with Phoebe in a harness for easy grabbing, at opposite ends of the room. Paul and I circled the impending encounter like wrestlers looking for a hold.

Bird and dog made a beeline for each other but just as I thought we would have to intervene they dodged a head-on collision and began to spar. Phoebe was having a grand time; here was a toy that played back! Louie was angry; she knew she could take this thing, but Phoebe was faster.

Despite being a convalescent, Phoebe adroitly wove in and out of beak range. She ran circles around Louie and pounced at her tail when she wasn't looking. Louie would then whirl around and rush at Phoebe with head down, beak open. But Phoebe was long gone, already pouncing again from another angle. It was humiliating.

After a few tense minutes of watching Louie's growing frustration, we separated them. They hadn't touched one another, but nobody was happy but Phoebe. Paul and I exchanged looks. He shook his head. "This is not good."

So when the animal shelter said to come and get Mimi, that among the five people who had applied for her I had "won," I was gripped with a sense of dread. Now that I almost had a dog, what would I do with her?

The woman who worked at the front desk of the animal shelter beamed when I arrived. "I was hoping number three would get her," she said. "I said to myself, I hope it's you." I was sure she said that to everyone who adopted an animal.

"Would you like to take her out for a bit, see how you like her?"

"Sure!" I said, feigning enthusiasm.

Mimi was brought out on a leash by another volunteer. "Meet your new mommy!" she said.

Mimi was ecstatic to see a new person, any person probably. She wriggled and wagged her tail and pranced on her leash. I felt guilty that everyone except me was delighted about the impending adoption, but it was all happening so fast. I hadn't even filled out a questionnaire. Didn't they want to know whether I smoked, worked all day or had kids who roasted small dogs over an open flame? I took the leash and squeezed out the front door while trying not to step on the dancing Mimi.

I sat down outside and patted the bench beside me. "Come on, Mimi." She made a couple of starts as if to jump, but settled for standing on her hind legs with her front paws on the bench. Too small to jump up on a park bench. Yikes.

I picked her up and set her in my lap. She trembled violently. "Will you get any bigger?" I asked, stroking the small head. I fingered one of her enormous ears, which turned down at the tips. Her ears were very soft and when the light was behind them you could see the veins. I also liked the way her forehead furrowed when she was interested in something. It made her look worried. She chewed my fingers.

I took her back inside. "She's sweet," I said to the woman behind the counter. I felt torn. I was a big-dog person, not into little mutts. But was Louie a big-dog bird? She would never have a problem with a dog like Mimi.

That was 90 percent of the decision right there. Plus, Mimi was a decent little creature who deserved better. Somebody had to do something about that name, for one thing. She wasn't a Mimi any more than she was a Fifi or a Muffin or a Princess. She was an incredibly small canine, smaller than any I had ever owned or even known personally, but not a dog without self-respect. She deserved better than the pink fake-diamond collar she came with, and the pink crocheted dog sweater that said, "Love." Where was all the love when she got dumped at the shelter? It got my dander up. If not me, who would rehabilitate Mimi? Yes, this dog would be perfect for me and Louie and Paul.

"I'll take her," I told the woman. "What do you think of the name Phoebe?"

I had already decided that if I adopted Mimi I would change her name, but give her something close to the old one to ease the transition. Some friends of ours did this regularly with second-hand dogs whose given names they didn't like and I admired the kindness of the technique. It could also be fun and creative. For example, one of their dogs, an old show-beagle named "Duchess," became "Luscious." Everyone I told about Mimi-Phoebe thought it was a good plan. "She'll like it. She'll just think you have a speech impediment," my uncle had cracked.

The shelter woman said she thought Phoebe was a great name and though I knew she was probably only saying it to be nice, her approval made me feel even better about the decision. Already the dog had a name I liked. Everything else would fall into place. I handed Phoebe over the counter to another woman, someone she obviously had become very fond of in the four days she had spent at the shelter. She wriggled happily in the woman's arms and I felt a twinge of jealousy. Then they disappeared through the double doors and Phoebe was put back in her cell where she screamed in high-pitched ear-splitting protest. She sounded like what I thought a fox or a rabbit caught in a trap might sound like.

The next day Phoebe would be transferred to the office of an Oakland veterinarian where she would be spayed. After a day or two of recovery, we could pick her up there. I wrote a check for $40, the adoption fee, and it was done. I went home to tell Paul.

Diane started down the walk again and saw me sitting on my steps. "A new Chihuahua just came in!" she greeted me cheerfully. "You should go see her. She'll go fast!"

Diane fosters dogs for the animal shelter. Lola had come from the shelter, and I had admired her the first time I had seen her, when she was five weeks old. Then she was a sweet, shy mite of a canine, almost small enough to fit in a shirt pocket. Now she was a scowling sausage with stubby legs, weeping protuberant eyes and an unbecoming attitude. She was eight months old and looked 10 years old.

"She's a wonderful dog, not like this little shit," said Diane, giving Lola's leash a mild tug.

Well, at least Diane could admit Lola had not turned out as hoped.

"Sounds good. I'll go see her," I promised, lying.

When the shelter reopened Tuesday morning I went down. No harm in taking a peek. I had visited a Chihuahua a few weeks before and had decided he was not for me. Too diffident, too trembly, too...Chihuahua. I could walk away again.

They were busy up front so I let myself through the double doors and entered the dog run alone. Pit bull, pit bull, German shepherd, pit bull, pit bull. Typical lineup. I stopped in front of an enclosure empty except for one of those fake-sheepskin dog beds sitting on the bare cement. Curled up asleep inside the tiny bed was the Chihuahua. When she saw me, the head jerked up and she stared at me for a moment, then she leaped up and ran over to greet the stranger. She had big ears, a small curly tail, a lean snout, brown eyes and remarkably long, slender legs. She was tan with white stockings and a marking around her neck that made her look like she was wearing a white kerchief. She showed her pleasure at the unexpected attention by wriggling and licking my fingers. The curly tail wagged furiously.

I went back to the desk. The Chihuahua voiced her disappointment at being left alone again in piercing high-pitched yelps everyone in the office could hear.

Her name was Mimi and she was a six-month-old "Chihuahua mix". Housebreaking was "in progress." Her previous owner had had to give her up because "her husband wouldn't let her keep her anymore." What did that mean? That the husband was a jerk and she was a doormat, or that the guy justifiably couldn't stand the whining and accidents anymore? What kind of dog still peed on the carpet after six months?

"There are two applications ahead of you," said the animal control officer, "but you should try for her anyway, because lots of times people don't show up for their appointments."

I figured I didn't have a chance, and if they did call, I could back out then.

The next day at 12:30, when I still hadn't heard from the shelter, I picked up the phone. I wanted to find out what had happened, just out of curiosity. "The first two applicants didn't come," said the woman. "You have half an hour left to come down and claim her."

"Great!" I said, faking my enthusiasm. After all this time, almost 20 years, I still wasn't sure a dog was a good idea for someone who owned birds. Above all, I feared putting Louie in danger. But how much damage could a four-pound mutt do? "I'll be right down."

Next week: I meet Mimi.

Thanks for your responses; they do help, though I still seem to be stuck in decision mode. Here's what some of you had to say:

From Shahaff, Toronto: "Not a vermin hunter or retriever, please! We have a number of pet birds including a blue and gold - a giant male named Rio who is bonded to us and to his girlfrind Csilla, a female Bavarian conure.
My dogs are a Jack Russell terrier and a mini-schnauzer. We had a really difficult time explaining to them that birds are not food. Some other bird-nerd friends of mine have a lab, which tends to "retrieve" the bird from time to time. They've had unnecessary vet bills to get stitches for the dog and antibiotic for the bird (mammalian saliva is toxic to birds). I would recommend a herding dog, which tends to get attached to the whole family regardless of gender or species, or a gentle giant like a Bernese or Swiss mountain dog. Anything that is originally bred to guard or pull."

From Bethanie, Maine: "How about a greyhound? They sleep 23 hours a day, don't bark, barely shed, very timid, fold up relatively small and do not require much exercise. Mine has no real interest in any of my birds and actually avoids my parrots because the noise they make scares her. There are many in need of rescue. I have also had a collie who was best friends with my cockatoo - they did everything together until he died of old age. I have a rottweiler who is great around my big birds, and after a few corrections is now fine around the little ones, too."

From Lewis: "I have a blue-and-gold macaw named Luther and a two-year-old rottweiler named Lady. We went through a stage where they would each pick on each other: the parrot would hang upside down on his cage door and bite the dog, then climb to a level just out of the reach of the dog. The dog would return the favor by pulling out a tail feather or two. But we've overcome all of that and they have become friends and constant companions. They're into something every day, like knocking the cereal off the refrigerator. This morning it was the cinnamon-raisin bread from the kitchen counter. When I walked into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee, bird and dog were enjoying the raisin bread on the floor. It's a good match and I wouldn't trade the hilarious antics for any amount of money."

So, there we have it. No vermin hunters, rottweilers might be okay, herding dogs are gentle and greyhounds among the safest. Many thanks!

So. What kind of dog best complements a blue-and-gold macaw?

Should I go the gentle giant route (golden retriever) or get something small and naturally cowardly? Mid-size breeds seem to include many that are aggressive, neurotic or both. However, Louie did grow up with a sheltie and likes them, even if I don't, particularly. Pugs are the perfect blend of small size and sweet temperament, but bless their hearts, their asthmatic breathing annoys me and their eyes are disturbing. If it weren't for the upkeep, I would get another collie. They are beautiful, smart and kind, just like Lassie, but you could stuff an entire conversation pit of pillows with the hair.

Does anybody have any advice? What's the safest dog for a bird, if such a thing exists? E-mail me at birddog@parrotchronicles.com and I'll share your suggestions.

As Winnie gets older it has become tempting to lure her inside permanently for her own good, but Pon has resisted. There is, however, a postscript. Marilyn reports that since writing this story she has succeeded in closing the window of the bedroom during Winnie's visits. The first time made the bird a little nervous, but she quickly settled down. Eventually, however, Winnie always goes to the window and asks to be let out again. Read more in The free parrot of Prince Street.

Announcing the March-April 2007 Your Birds winners!
Winners of our latest photo contest are in and I think you're going to like the lineup.

Jill Warner's blue-front Amazon, Cyan, took first place for his gorgeous colors and provocatively raised feathers. Jill and Cyan win $50 of bird supplies from Your Birds sponsor ThePerch.net!

Megan Grueneberg of Leduc, Alberta, Canada won second place for her photo of her two lovebirds, Nai-Nai and Leyla, drying off after a bath. Those are two waterlogged birds! Megan and her feathered gang pick up $25 of their choice of bird supplies from Parrotdise Perch. The Perch is always kind enough to step in and sponsor our Canadian winners so they don't have to pay exorbitant shipping costs from the U.S. Thanks, Parrotdise Perch!

More of Marguerite
Ms. Floyd, she of the humor column Bird in the Hand, has a new one for us and I think everyone, especially those new to parrot ownership, will find it informative. I highly recommend clipping this one: Ten tough questions you should ask yourself before getting a parrot.

If you have a question to which you would like to receive a snarky answer, write Marguerite at birdinthehand@parrotchronicles.com.

Many other fine photographers from around the world entered the contest, as you can see from our Honorable Mentions and Runnersup. Thanks to all for supporting Your Birds, and we look forward to seeing what lands on our doorstep for the May-June 2007 contest, which starts right now!

With that in mind, our last unscientific reader poll asked: how do you handle a trigger-happy beak? The most popular solution is issuing a verbal reprimand. A whopping 25 percent of you say, "No!" in a stern voice.

The next most popular choice at 22 percent is the time-honored timeout; in other words, expressing your displeasure by letting the bird cool its heels in the slammer for a while.

Six percent of you give your birds the "evil eye," an old body-language technique that behavior experts used to recommend quite frequently. Most of us who shout, "No!" are usually giving our birds a dirty look anyway; it's only natural to scowl at someone who has just drawn blood. This one can be a tricky one to pull off, though, if the guilty party refuses to look you in the eye.

A few readers (3 percent) reported being more proactive. They clip their bird and disallow perching above their heads. Behavior experts now pooh-pooh the idea of height dominance, but it's clear that if you have to reach up with a hand you're at a disadvantage. I can't retrieve Louie from high perches unless I bring myself up to eye level with her at least and above her ideally. Otherwise she feels free to dish out abuse from her throne on high.

A handful of you have needed stitches. One cautious person reported wearing gloves. Seventeen percent say they use a combination of two or more of the above techniques.

Given the pervasiveness of biting, it's surprising that some people don't run into this problem at all. Ten percent said their bird gives gentle nips only. Eight percent of you have never been bitten! What's up with that? (Are you sure it's a parrot?)

But it seems that for most parrots, love means never having to promise you won't bite. We hapless owners ignore the surliness, or wait it out, and bandage when we have to, but rarely get so disenchanted that we call it quits. Just don't tell your bird that; it would only give the little darling more ammo.

Our new survey is inspired by Marguerite Floyd's latest humor column, "Darling, would you please pass the mashed potatoes. But hold the cockatiel." The poll question: What is the most embarrassing thing your bird has ever done? Bitten your mother-in-law? Used swear words in front of visiting clergy? Share the memories. (And if you vote "Other," no fair leaving the comments box blank. Inquiring minds want to know how your bird humiliated you.)

But it was nothing like that. All we saw were dogs, and they were all as well-groomed and as well-behaved as the people who had brought them to the Fess Parker DoubleTree Resort in Santa Barbara for Christmas.

As for us (quite possibly the only people there with a blue-and-gold macaw), we didn't have a speck of trouble with Louie. Well, maybe the tiniest speck.

In four days not once did the hotel manager call me on my cell phone to demand that I come back to the room at once and make my bird shut up, so I assume Louie was quiet while we were out. Every morning, however, when Paul went to get ice and left Louie alone with me, she screamed for him at the top of her air sacs.

"Louie!" I shushed in a fierce whisper, taking her out of her cage. "No!" Setting her on my knee and petting her usually did the trick.

"I could hear her," Paul said one morning.

"I bet."

"No, you don't understand. I could hear her at the ice machine, all the way down the hall, around the corner and all the way to the end of the next hall."

"Uh oh."

But nobody complained. Maybe they felt like they couldn't, not in a pet-friendly hotel. Besides, Louie was not the only rowdy animal.

There were approximately 500 seven-foot-tall high school boys in town for some sort of basketball championship event which they apparently were winning.

Or maybe they were losing and drowning their sorrows, but late into every night there was much celebratory grunting, whoo-whooing and extemporaneous rapping out in the corridor.

It seemed that every time we left our room or tried to return to it we got swept up in a herd of giant boys rushing off to practice. I don't know about Paul, who is 6'4", but at 5'10" I feared ending up under the size-13 sneaker of some kid taking the stairs three steps at a time.

After listening to the cast of Hoosiers whoop it up all week, we decided not to sweat it if Louie screamed. In fact, if she wanted to bellow at 7 a.m. every morning there was nothing we could really do about it. Now was there?

Just like home
I can't tell you how special it was to come back to our room every night and be with Louie. Paul crawled into bed with a book and Louie perched happily on his chest, just like at home.

I have to admit my ideal vacation doesn't include changing papers and washing food bowls. On the other hand not once did we turn to the other over dinner and say wistfully, "I wonder how Louie's doing."

We were a little concerned at first about the sleeping arrangements. I tried sleeping in the same room with Louie once, right after we'd moved into our house.

The front room of the house when we bought it was staged as a pretty little bedroom with polished wood floors and a throw rug and brass bed. After auditioning practically every room in the house for the birds (we had four parrots then), the solution became only too obvious, and painful. The birds, not our guests, would get the nicest room in the house because it was the only one with wood floors.

Determined not to give up an entire room to the birds, I decided to set up a four-poster bed in there, too. When company came they could have the guest bedroom downstairs and we could sleep in Louie's room.

I took the arrangement for a test spin soon after that and it was awful. Louie's cage was so close I could almost reach out and touch it. During the night every sneeze, feather ruffle and splat woke me up. To avoid breathing her dander (bird lung, you know) I faced the opposite wall and covered my head with a pillow. I'm sure I kept Louie up, too.

So it was with some trepidation that we approached sharing a hotel room with Louie. The first night we rolled the collapsible cage into the dressing area. There was no door but this offered at least some physical separation. In the morning we rolled the cage back in front of the sliding glass doors so Louie could look outside at the palm trees.

That night we were too lazy to move the cage back out of sight but it didn't matter. The room was so big and the cage so far away from the bed that Louie's nocturnal twitches didn't wake us. She was, however, directly in the path of the blast of air coming from the heating vent, so we threw a light blanket over the cage. One night when I was feeling especially nervous about drafts I fortified the blanket with a layer of hotel towels.

At check-in we had asked that housekeeping not use aerosols in our room. Judging from the layer of dust on the furniture by the end of our stay our request had been honored. However, one day we did find a can of carpet freshener one of the maids had accidentally left behind. Surely they used pet-friendly cleaners, but pet friendly does not always mean bird friendly. I need to do more research for next time.

Ever the neatnik, Paul wanted the room to look as if we had never been there. After collapsing the cage we scraped up as much of the seed and feathers left on the carpet as possible. Louie had had one accident we had blotted up and now we couldn't see it. "Next time we bring the dustbuster," Paul said.

The real wonder of it all was that we were allowed to keep a macaw in a room as nice as ours. Surreal. Nice, but totally surreal. We would do it again.

Until then, a tip of the coonskin cap to Fess Parker and the DoubleTree staff. We came, we saw, and we did it with a parrot. Thanks for making it possible.

Rex was on a product review staff I managed back in the 1990s, way back before I hatched ParrotChronicles.com. He was a fitness buff, a devoted family man and a true old-fashioned gentleman who treated everyone with kindness and respect. He was a technology whiz who most recently served as PC World's senior technical editor.

Rex and I did not always see eye to eye on every issue but it didn't matter, not with Rex. He was too good-natured to let any work-related squabble doom a friendship in the long run. Although we rarely saw each other after that, he stayed in touch via instant message, most recently sending warm wishes for a happy new year. He was one of the sweetest, most sincere men I ever knew.

Of course I never told Rex how much I appreciated him, or how his sunny disposition always lifted my spirits. He, on the other hand, always made it abundantly clear how much he treasured those he considered friends. Now all I can do is quote Rex when I say, bless you, my friend, and godspeed.

And now the need was critical. Paul wanted to go on a long car trip in less than two weeks and he wanted to take Louie. In the spirit of "doing something different for Christmas," we were going to spend Christmas Eve with family, then jump in the truck Christmas morning and drive down the coast.

We had traveled with Louie before, to a friend's house in the country three hours away. She rode in a dog kennel I'd bought for trips to the vet and that worked fine. The destination cage we took with us was an old African grey cage I had always known would come in handy some day.

Alas, while plenty big for my cockatiels, the grey cage was way too snug for a macaw. While we lounged by the pool and made trips into town, Louie clearly was not having a grand holiday sitting hunched over on her perch, her tail almost poking through the bars.

For our upcoming Christmas excursion, Paul had booked four nights at a pet-friendly hotel, the Fess Parker Doubletree Resort in Santa Barbara.

We had never stayed in a hotel where people were actually encouraged to bring animals. Wouldn't it be nice walking into a pretty lobby with a bird cage, in plain sight, instead of skulking up the back stairs? Fantastic! And yet...

I'd always loved the idea of hotels that allowed pets and watched the growing trend with enthusiasm. But preaching the gospel is easier than practicing it. It wasn't that I enjoyed my former criminal life. It was just that unlike all those other places we'd sneaked into, everyone else at a pet-friendly hotel would have an animal, too. I mean, really, who wanted to stay in a place like that?

I could live for a week in close quarters with Louie's feathers, stale food and paper-towel-blotted accidents, but I dreaded discovering the stains sure to be left behind by somebody else's incontinent pooch or hairball-hacking feline. For that matter, how had I forgotten I was allergic to cat dander? Even the name of the hotel brought back memories (however fond) of dead animal pelts.

On the other hand, the room cost a bundle. The pictures looked really nice. We even had a no-smoking room. And what would be the point of offering rooms guaranteed not to smell like ashtrays if they reeked of wee-wee?

A final quick scan of the hotel Web site failed to reveal anything other than no-smoking and choice of queen or king. As far as I could tell, there were no Extra-Premium-No-Pet-Stain rooms to be had. So it was to be. Even if Daniel Boone did once live in a dirt-floor cabin, we would just have to trust he had raised his housekeeping standards since becoming a hotel magnate. Besides, we had a lovely view of the beach and nothing to lose but two weeks' pay.

I started shopping for a travel cage both we and Louie could love. It had to be big enough for her to move around in comfortably with plenty of tail and head clearance. It had to be light and convenient enough to transport, easy to set up and collapse, but sturdy and safe enough for her to spend all day in if necessary.

Frankly, I didn't think it existed. I'd never seen a collapsible cage big enough for a macaw and if there was one I wasn't sure I wanted it. I had seen The Illusionist. But within minutes Google led me to Midwest Model 2200 at MightyPets.com.

It was gorgeous. The weight (73 pounds) and price (300 bucks) were intimidating, but at least delivery was free. It arrived a few days later when I was out running errands. By the time I got home, Paul had already set it up and taken it down again. It came in a long, flat, brown and very heavy box. "It's perfect," he said. "Heavy, but perfect."

We left at noon Christmas Day and after a blustery drive down the coast pulled into town around 6. We locked Louie in the truck with the windows rolled up; outside it was cool and overcast.

It's an impressive place, Fess's. The lobby was decorated with a 20-foot-tall Christmas tree and everywhere we looked there were dogs in tow. Chows, Chihuahuas, poodles, some dressed in Christmas sweaters. It was unbelievably festive, and for a weary traveler arriving with a pet, like coming home.

At the desk we paid the $40 nonrefundable pet deposit and were asked to sign a document that promised we would not leave our pet unattended in the room.

"But," I said, a little alarmed, "she's a bird."

"A bird?" said the nice check-in woman.

Please don't ask what kind, I silently pleaded.

"She's usually pretty quiet," Paul said.

"No problem. Let me just get your cell phone number, and if we get any complaints while you're out we'll give you a call."

Before we left I asked her to please tell housekeeping not to use aerosols or rug cleaners during our stay. She dutifully took it all down and said she would pass it on.

The bell captain took our luggage and we drove Louie around to our third-floor room in the "Camelia" building. Paul grabbed the front end of the kennel and I carried the back, and we rushed Louie out of the cold into the elevator.

What can I say? We turned the key into the most beautiful room, and spotless, too. If the previous guest had left behind a scintilla of objectionable DNA, human or otherwise, it was gone now.

Paul quickly set up the cage, which also exceeded my expectations. It was three feet wide by two feet deep and over four feet tall, perhaps 80 percent the size of Louie's cage at home.

I loved the big see-through clear-plastic 20-ounce food and water crocks. Louie loved the dowel perch, just right for her feet. The pan, made of ABS plastic, was sturdy but light and easy to slide out, and the base had five swivel casters - one in each corner and a fifth in the center - for easy rolling. Although heavy in its box, the cage was so light I could almost push the entire thing around with one finger. Amazing. But it didn't wobble. I could trust it.

We stowed Louie's travel kennel under the desk in the room and let her explore. She waddled about excitedly, chortling, eyes pinning and flashing. Soon she had vetted everything to her satisfaction and located most of the reflective surfaces, starting with the full-length mirror in the dressing room. Life on the road was good.

Next week: Louie announces her presence.