Last month Tango found a good place to sing, but just in case you didn’t meet him last month, I will start this little adventure from the beginning…
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Picasso continued his routine patrol of the fence with all the decorum of a peacock. Each step deliberate so that not a single scrubby twig shifted, his fur-like feathers barely brushing against the wire grid too high to jump. Dry ferns and prickly scrub grew through the mesh at the foot of the fence, but ahead there was an emptiness in the dense line of browning vegetation. And the fence…the fence was gone!
Sunlight streamed through the tangled layers of conifer branches and palm fronds to pierce the eternal twilight of the undergrowth. A cloud of tiny, reflective wings coiled like mist in the shaft of light, the thin whine of their hanging flight almost drowned by the whirring, buzzing, drumming, chirping of countless other unseen insects. Alien cries from leather-winged creatures called from above, answered and challenged by a cacophony of voices that clicked, whooped, hollered, whistled…any and every sound fighting to be heard through air so dense with foliage and humidity, constant moisture clung to the leaves and dripped to the black forest floor.
Patricia shut the gate behind her and scanned the paddock, but the small shed in the corner was empty, and nothing stirred in the grove of thick palms surrounding it. She pulled her supply wagon closer to the plastic feed bucket hanging on the fence line, and reached into a large canvas bag for a heaping scoopful of pellets. She dumped them into the bucket and tapped the plastic sides with the scoop.
“Rosie!” She tapped the bucket a few more times before jabbing the scoop into the feed bag.
Sunlight streamed through the tangled layers of conifer branches and cycad fronds to pierce the eternal twilight of the undergrowth. A cloud of tiny, reflective wings coiled like mist in the shaft of light, the thin whine of their hanging flight almost drowned by the whirring, buzzing, drumming, chirping of countless other unseen insects. Alien cries from leather-winged creatures called from above, answered and challenged by a cacophony of voices that clicked, whooped, hollered, whistled…any and every sound fighting to be heard through air so dense with foliage and humidity, constant moisture clung to the leaves and dripped to the black forest floor.
Patricia rested a hand on the sturdy gate and squinted, the other hand shading her eyes from the morning sun glinting through the underbrush. Was that a shadowy, two-legged figure, or just one of the cycad fronds blowing in the breeze? She scanned the small paddock, fumbling with the gate latch blindly for a moment before looking down to thumb the pin back and unhook the chain.
“Alright, where are you Rosie,” she murmered as she swung the gate open. The paddock was not very large, but the small shed in the corner was dark and empty, and nothing stirred in the grove of thick cycads surrounding it- like thick, stumpy palm trees, but pricklier. Of course. Rosie had to be hiding there.
Picasso looks very happy to see you, and he wonders very much if you like his red crest. He’s very proud of it, you see, and he’s been strutting around the field like a very large rooster. Continue reading
Yes, Opie seems to think he’s a big lapdog, and he loves it when you stroke his feathers. Where is he off to now? It looks like he’s going to show you his favorite toy…Opie carries Teddy around everywhere. He’s gone through quite a few “surgeries” to poke the stuffing back in after Opie nibbled on him. Continue reading
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