As I sit here at my desk, I can hear the birds chirping softly, at 3 ayem. I have the tv on in the other room, and they're delighted by the light and the noise, though I have the volume low.
Our parakeets are ordinarily a cheery bunch, and their leader Mr. Bird has proven his worth as a cheerleader more than once. I distinctly recall his happy songs when we were moving across the mountains of New Mexico, headed westward to our new home. That was a bit of a desperate voyage, and time was tight, and I was tired as hell and appreciated his spirit.
But there are times when the little feathered kids get to be a bit too much. This isn't one of those times, but I've actually gotten screaming headaches from the effort of trying to maintain a conversation and watch tv while in the same room with them.
Did I mention that we have 18 of the colorful little fliers?
When we came here we had five. Sometimes that was too many.
One was a lot, periodically. I remember looking at Mr. Bird moments after he arrived, and asking my dearest "Where does he keep his little amp?"
The volume raises exponentially after six. If I go outsiude and leave the door open, I can hear 'em at the front gate, 100 or so feet away.
I'm amazed that nobody ever complains.
Except us. We complain to the sources, but they don't mind us. We're just poorly-trained slaves.