Close Encounters of the Bird Kind

If I didn't know better, I'd think I was starring in my own Hitchcock movie, a benevolent remake of "The Birds." Eagle that I am -- or claim to be -- it stands to reason, I suppose, that I would be hanging with my own kind, but the other night things got a little bizarre.

Outside my bathroom window, I could swear I heard the throaty "hoooo, hoooo" of our neighborhood owl, the lone white tailed hooter who would serenade us every few nights last winter from its perch in a tree two blocks from my house. My daughter confirmed it; my eyes may have deteriorated, but my ears still work. We decided not to race out to see our old friend, knowing it would probably abandon its precarious seat at the top of the bare, unusually tall tree down the street the moment it detected our intrusion. We listened quietly from my bathroom instead to the eerie sound. A fish out of water, this owl in suburbia, yet it keeps coming back.

Indeed the "hoooo's" had stopped resonating through the chill suburban air by the time I drove by hoping for a glimpse. Somebody had obviously gotten there first to spook the displaced bird into spreading its massive wings and soaring off to the safety of a more natural habitat. But this night was destined to be, well, for the birds, and within minutes, I was being introduced to an umbrella cockatoo named Mickey. Move over, Mr. Fireman Potato Head; Mickey the cockatoo is by far the most beautiful and exotic creature upon which I have ever laid eyes. This eagle is smitten.

With feathers whiter than fresh snow, whiter than a load of laundry drenched in Clorox, Mickey sat on his faux branch, his little head held high as he greeted me with repeated squawks of "Hello Mickey, hello Mickey." (I did say little head.) I didn't want him to feel stupid (men hate that) so I returned the greeting with repeated squawks of my own: "Hello Jill, hello Jill." I was captivated by Mickey, and when he willingly left his perch to climb up my arm with his big feet (and you know what they say about big feet), I literally swooned. Gorgeous, gentle, friendly, gazing at me as if I was the exotic creature. Everything I'm looking for in a fellow; who cares if he's a little mixed up on the salutation thing. Maybe he was just nervous.

Now I'm not forgetting my mom's advice -- that I never want to get involved with a guy who's going to fight me for the mirror. Mickey may be gorgeous, but he's different. I can tell. And anyway, there was no sign of a mirror anywhere near the guy, and why punish him for being born with good genes? Here's the best part; Mickey's wings have been clipped. He may be a pretty boy, but I'll be able to keep him on a short leash.

I hope my magnificent owl friend returns soon so I can tell him about Mickey. Flightless Mickey isn't going anywhere, and it would be nice to have a few more strange birds in the neighborhood. You know -- birds of a feather, and all that crap.