“Good morning, Squeaky Pie!” Momanita, my hootman, greeted me.
“You mean, good dawn or happy sunrise or pleasant daybreak,” I chirped and scooted away from Momanita who peeked under my rollynest cover. “And I don’t think dawn or sunrise or daybreak is good or happy or pleasant! They’re too early!”
“Did you hear the birdsong, Squeaks? It woke me this morning. Did it wake you?”
“No! Birdsong did NOT wake me! Hootman talk woke me. I want to sleep.”
To other hootmans this sounded like squeals and whistles, but not to Momanita. She MOSTLY understood cockatiel speak. I MOSTLY understood hootman talk.
“I know it’s early, Squeaky Beak.”
Momanita rubbed my neck.
I curled my neck down so she’d pet where my new feathers grew. Growing new feathers was itchy.
“I need your help.”
“I’ll help you later.”
“I want to write and you inspire me.”
“I’ll inspire you this afternoon!”
Momanita held my little writing nest.
“Maybe this will help.”
Momanita filled the writing nest seed cup and topped it off with Cheerios. I LOVE crunchy Cheerios. Cheerios inspired me to inspire Momanita. I stepped onto her finger then into my writing nest.
Photo by Marius-Laurentiu Butan on Pexels.com
“The robin perched on our roof and sang to wake me, Squeaks. He wanted me to start my writing day early.”
“No, the robin sang from your rooftop so that his song would carry far. He wanted everything to know that he survived the night,” I squealed. Momanita was wrong. Hootmans HATE being wrong. Cockatiels are NEVER wrong.
Momanita settled behind her desk and opened her computer.
“Or maybe he sang to remind me that it’s a beautiful world out there!”
“Wrong again! The robin sang because it’s a dangerous world out there! The tut-tut-tutting call means a hunting cat.” Robins knew these things, so did cockatiels.
Momanita paused her typing.
“I hate to tell you, Squeaks. Birds have beautiful songs, but they’re not as pretty as a human song.”
“Double wrong! Birds have an organ called a syrinx. This lets us sing two pitches at one time! Hootmans can’t do that!” I squawked. I squealed. I whistled. I showed off my syrinx.
Hootmans hate to be wrong and Momanita was the wrongest a hootman can get!
“Settle down, Squeaky Pie. I’m Googling “birdsong.” I think there’s more to it than I think. “
Momanita rubbed my neck and I nibbled her finger.
“I’m hardly ever wrong, but this time you’re right. It is a beautiful world out there,” I chirped.
I’m not sure she got what I meant because Momanita MOSTLY understood cockatiel speak and I MOSTLY understood hootman talk.
Anita Borgo 