Boggle’s palace, although all that could possibly be desired for contented cockatiel living, is not very portable. It took us quite a while to assemble it when he arrived, so we don’t relish the thought of taking it apart very often.
Of course, in the normal run of things, we have no need to move him about, and his cage fits quite neatly into the sitting room, since we have had to bring it indoors. He chirps and whistles happily, teases the dog and shouts at us if we ignore him. His cage contains various toys and pieces of tree to amuse him. He has plenty of seeds to nibble on, along with his cuttle bone and some gorgeous-smelling fruity stuff that the girl at the pet supply place recommended.
He spends hours swinging in his multicoloured rope swing, chirping and preening the loose threads he has picked free. At night he snuggles up inside it to sleep. In some ways, it is a surrogate partner for him, and he is fiercely protective of it. If we get too close to it, he lunges and hisses at us in a not very terrifying display of aggression.
For some reason, Boggle has never become particularly tame, even with his owner. He will perch on her head and preen her hair, or climb all over her laptop as she works, but he will not let her touch him, and reacts very badly if she puts her fingers anywhere near him. With us, he is perfectly friendly, but at a distance.
You can imagine, then, our concern when we realised that we would soon need to transfer him to his smaller, travelling cage. We were due to spend a week house-sitting for friends, and taking his palace with us was not an option.
For several days, I tried to make reassuring noises and pass my hands in front of him when I filled his food and water bowls. I crooned at him in my very crooniest voice. I moved so slowly that I almost ground to a halt. I never approached him from behind, and I nearly dislocated my fingers trying to undo his cage without shaking the cage. If I could reassure him that I was no threat to him, we might be able to move him more easily.
Did he appreciate my efforts? Not in the slightest. Like a feminist being told to calm down, dear, he hissed and threatened. If I got anywhere near his rope swing he went completely demented, rushing at my hand with his beak gaping. While his bite is to be feared about as much as an assault by a damp flannel, I did not want to traumatise the poor little chap.
I wondered if he might respond better to Geoff. When we had our full-size parrot, it was blindingly obvious that he preferred men to women, and I thought Boggle might be the same. I was wrong. Even with Geoff at his most soothing and unthreatening, Boggle threw his tiny body at Geoff’s huge hands in an absolute rage. We made a tactical withdrawal.
“What do you reckon, Poppy?” I asked. After due consideration, she recommended opening the cage door and leaving the two of them together to negotiate. I had my doubts about any positive outcome from such a scheme.
I discussed the matter with his owner. What did she think was the best way to approach it? Neither of us was happy with the idea of chasing him around with a tea towel and wrapping him up. He had an unfortunate run-in with a strip of flypaper a few months ago, and had to be restrained then, while the vet cut his sticky feathers free. We did not want to risk the trauma of a repeat performance, especially when little birds have been known to drop dead if over-stressed. We were unable to come up with anything approaching a solution. It was all most unsatisfactory.
The day was drawing nearer, but a solution was as elusive as ever. Eventually, we decided that we would have to move his food into the smaller cage, which we would somehow attach to the palace with cable ties. Lured by hunger, Boggle would go where we wanted him to go. Of course, we knew he would probably wait until the moment our backs were turned. We anticipated a couple of days of will he? won’t he? and clumsy attempts to shut the door quickly, thwarted by Boggle hopping back into the palace, cackling with glee. As well as his contrariness, the inherent instability of any such arrangement was a concern, and the possibility of him escaping was very real. Once the dog factor was taken into account, we had a nightmare scenario in the making.
Eventually, we decided we would just have to make a start. We would open the two cage doors, contrive some way to keep the cages firmly together and him and the dog firmly apart and hunker down for a long wait. Geoff went to fetch the smaller cage from the garage, while I decided which of Boggle’s toys would best fit his temporary accommodation. I took my life in my hands and braved his fury as I removed the little wire ball with a bell. He hissed and threatened, while Poppy helped by sniffing my fingers as I tried to unscrew the wing nuts that held a couple of the smaller perches in place.
I removed his food hopper, hoping that if he worked up a hunger, we could tempt him into the smaller cage sooner. Boggle sat in his swing, furiously shouting his direst threats. If I came near him again, he would not be held responsible for his actions.
Of course, he would want his rope swing to go with him, but there was no way I could remove that without a second pair of hands, so I withdrew from the battle and took the opportunity to give the perches a scrub with an old toothbrush.
Geoff returned with the cage. We withdrew to the bathroom to discuss tactics. Maybe if we propped the smaller cage on a dining chair and tied it to the front of the palace, we could leave him to explore. We would drop the door as soon as he dropped his guard and moved across to get at his food.
We had a problem: if we left his swing in the large cage until he had moved out, we would be unable to get it into the small cage without letting him escape. If we tried to remove it while he was in the large cage, he would go bonkers. We decided to be brave. Geoff reached inside the cage while I undid the clasp that suspended it from the roof. Boggle was furious, and attacked my fingers, hissing and biting at them. We had come too far to stop, so I continued doggedly, until at last I was able to drop the swing into Geoff’s waiting hand.
By this time, my fingers were trembling slightly, but I managed to re-fasten the clasp around the bars at the top of the smaller cage. Now for the really tricky business of fixing the two cages together with their doors open, but in such a way that he could not squeeze out of any gaps.
As we suspected, the dining table was too high, so we stood the cage on a chair. It more or less lined up. Boggle watched warily. We opened the door of the palace and pushed the smaller cage up close to stop him escaping. We slid the smaller door open experimentally, and tried to think of a way to hold it open while still being able to tie the two cages together.
As we glanced away to see what might be at hand for the purpose, there was a sudden fluttering. Our attention had only slipped for a moment, but it was sufficient for Boggle to make his escape. We looked at each other aghast, and then realised that he had escaped from the palace, but gone straight into the smaller cage in order to be reunited with his beloved swing. There he sat, swinging contentedly, as if nothing had happened. True love had succeeded where all our planning and conniving had failed.
Reunited. Better a hovel where love dwells than a palace alone.