#every day I'm learning about a new dog breed that is actually harmed by a diet too rich in protein

[conchobarbarian]

the claim that dogs shouldn't eat grains is about as nonsensical as the claim that humans shouldn't eat grains. the domestication of dogs literally predates agriculture, and you don't think they adapted to that just as completely as humans did?

[joly-and-the-satellites]

Sometimes I think about the fact that Joly just seems like the kind of person who would own a bird, like a super rad parrot or something, and for some reason Bossuet is convinced that the bird doesn't like him and has it out for him even though Joly keeps trying to explain that it's not true. (I'm sorry you're not doing well. I hope this helps.)

Okay, this was meant to be short, but it got waaaaay out of hand.

Birds of a Different Feather

It was a quiet afternoon when Joly had first brought it up.

“I think I’d like to have a bird,” he had stated, so casually it was almost as if he’d asked about the weather later on in the week. Musichetta, to her credit, did not seem very bothered about it. She simply took a sip of her coffee and nodded, “I think you’d do well with one. Birds can be sweethearts - a lot of them really love their humans.” Bossuet had been a little more perplexed over the sudden admittance; he wasn’t sure where it had come from, or why Joly had wanted a bird, in specific. They seemed loud, and most of them somewhat feisty - he’d been bitten and scratched at before, and he wasn’t entirely keen on the idea. Why not a guinea pig, or a turtle? Hell, why not a cat or a dog?

“A bird?” he had asked, a bit of hesitance in his tone. Joly had looked up, nodding - Bossuet must have had a certain expression on his face, because he had almost immediately backtracked. “Well, yeah, I would like to have a bird - unless you’re afraid of them? I really should have asked that before bringing it up, I’m sorry,” he replied, giving Bossuet that guilty, wide-eyed look, like a puppy who had been caught stealing food.

He wasn’t afraid of them, of course; more so, he was cautious around them, and didn’t really like his odds when it came to one descending from the heavens like a vengeful angel every time he walked into their house. But, he knew how much Joly had wanted a pet; he’d been looking longingly at shelters for months, and was always asking them about different types of animals. He had probably hoped that he was being subtle about it, but Musichetta had caught on almost immediately. Once she had tipped Bossuet off on the hints that he had been dropping, it became hard to ignore them.

If we had a dog, what kind would you want? Do you think we’d ever adopt a cat? Do ferrets actually smell? I’m not convinced that they do. How hard do you think hedgehogs bite? What kind of name would you give a bearded dragon if you had one?

And really, who was he to dash his hopes? If Joly had admit specifically to wanting a bird, who was he to refuse him without even considering it? And he really did have such a hard time saying no to those big brown doe eyes of his…

“No, I’m not afraid of birds,” Bossuet had responded. “I just don’t know much about them as pets. What do you think, ‘Chetta?” Musichetta had given him that sly little smirk over her mug that had told him she was onto him. She had raised her eyebrow subtly at him - You’re really not afraid of them? she was asking. Bossuet shook his head. No, I’m really not, was his silent reply. She had then turned to Joly, that bright smile on her face. “They’re good pets. They can be a little noisy, and sometimes they’re attention hogs; but there are kinds that aren’t too loud or aggressive. We’ll just have to do our research.”

Joly had looked back at Bossuet, his eyes shining with hope.

Bossuet had caved a little too easily.

After about a month of debating the pros and cons of various breeds, they had settled on a cockatiel; not too big that Bossuet would be running for cover, and relatively affectionate. They had gone to a shelter that had a cockatiel, recently surrendered by its owner, with the hopes of adopting it; but when they had entered the corridor where the birds were kept, Joly had zoned in on something else altogether.

An African Grey parrot.

It didn’t look threatening, aside from stature in comparison to the other birds. It was huddled down on a perch, gray feathers messy and unkempt - it seemed that it had been pulling out its own feathers. One leg was tucked up against its stomach as it dozed, eyes closed and body still. Joly instantly gravitated towards it, as easily as a magnet to its opposite pole, making a little sound of distress at the state of the bird. The parrot opened its eyes instantly, and stood back up so quickly it wobbled on the wooden perch - before it could lose its balance entirely, it flapped its wings, catching itself with a bit of effort. It hopped away from Joly on one foot, feathers standing on end in apparent alarm; Joly shuffled back immediately, a guilty look on his face. “What’s happened to this one?” Musichetta asked the volunteer, May, who was acting as their guide. She had paused, turning back to see which animal had caught her eye; her expression fell a bit when she saw Joly peering up at the parrot.

“That’s Charlie,” May answered, her tone becoming a bit more morose out of sympathy. “He’s… been through a lot. His owner didn’t take very good care of him; whoever they were, they abused him. He was left here in a box without a note, and no food or water. His leg was broken, and it was so badly infected that it had to be amputated. That’s why he stumbled a little when you approached him; he’s still a little scared of people.”

As soon as she said it, Joly looked back at his lovers with those big, sad eyes, as if he had been personally injured. Bossuet had to admit that it had gotten to him, as well; it seemed impossible to him that anyone could be capable of being so cruel to any kind of animal, especially one that was meant to be a companion to them. He just couldn’t wrap his head around how heartless one would have to be to intentionally harm their pets; especially to the extent of the animal losing a limb, or losing their trust in humans.

“How long has he been here?” Joly asked in a small voice, staring up at Charlie with his hands clutched together at his chest. It was a familiar action - he did it every time something struck a heartstring, and considering how big of a heart he had, it was fairly often. “Nine years,” May answered solemnly. “no one wants him because they’re afraid he’ll lash out, or that he’s too much of a responsibility. Some people just think he’s too ugly, or they don’t want to adopt a pet that might live as long as they do. They don’t want to make the commitment.”

Bossuet didn’t need to look at either of them to know that the decision had made - because he was already completely on board.

“How much is the adoption fee?” Bossuet asked.

May smiled warmly at that; but not nearly as brightly as Joly had.

Charlie was not entirely accepting at first; but Joly didn’t stop trying to forge a bond with him for a single moment.

The parrot was quiet and almost introverted - he didn’t like being held, and often tried to escape if one of them held their hand out to him, however slow the approach. Joly spent countless hours sitting next to the huge birdcage, talking to Charlie about his day and asking him questions about his as if he would reply; sometimes, when he had run out of things to say, he would pick up one of his favorite books and read to the parrot. He seemed especially fond of reading passages detailing dragons and mythical birds to him.

And bit by bit, Charlie learned to accept his presence. 

He stopped jerking away when Joly walked by, and no longer tried to get to the other side of the room when he heard his voice. He was no longer flinching away from their laughter, and slowly, he stopped pulling out his feathers in favor of curiously picking at the toys and puzzles that they had bought for him. Joly would offer his hand to Charlie at times, hoping that he would hop over from the perch; a few times, he’d been bitten or nipped at, and many of those times, the parrot had drawn blood. Joly was ever-careful that he didn’t react negatively, and instead of jerking his hand away or raising his voice, he would carefully step back and apologize for startling him. When Charlie had finally allowed Joly to gently stroke his feathers, he had the biggest, beaming smile on his face - and from there, things only improved.

Joly was the only one that was allowed to carry him for a long time. Charlie would perch on his shoulder as he sat at his desk, or land in his lap when he sat on the chair next to the birdcage. It took a few weeks and a lot of gentle encouragement, but he finally started showing Musichetta the same trust, hitching rides on her shoulder as she walked about the house. He always went back to Joly, in the end; he was a one-person bird, it seemed, but Musichetta hardly minded. Joly was incredibly cheerful before they had adopted Charlie, of course - but he was so often in high spirits and so often gushing over his new feathered friend, who was the subject of many Instagram posts and Snapchat stories.

Bossuet, on the other hand, hadn’t yet gained Charlie’s trust or affection.

In fact, Charlie often puffed up defensively from Joly’s shoulder whenever Bossuet was near; he wasn’t competing for Joly’s affections, per say, but he was certainly less than excited about Bossuet’s presence in the room. He didn’t squawk or scream at him, though, which he had considered to be a good thing for a while… at least, until Joly had gotten the parrot talking, and he’d told Bossuet with the utmost confidence, feathers fluffed out and chest pushed forward as if trying to intimidate him, ‘scram, punk.’

Musichetta had choked on her tea, and Joly had snorted loudly. Bossuet had heeded the warning and promptly made his exit.

Charlie was absolutely, irrevocably, undeniably out to get him. And Bossuet just wasn’t sure what to do about it.

He looked up from his phone, taking in the scene just across the coffee table. Joly was sitting with his leg pulled up onto the couch, knee bent upward, the other rested out comfortably on the cushions, as he’d taken his prosthetic off once he’d gotten home. Charlie was perched on his bent knee, facing Joly, and leaning down to give him little ‘bird kisses’ - pressing his beak to Joly’s nose and making exaggerated noises to signify a smooch. Joly was petting his feathers lightly, that happy, relaxed smile on his face, watching a cartoon on the television idly when his attention wasn’t on the parrot.

The moment Bossuet reached for his little bag of Goldfish crackers, Charlie was standing upright and watching.

He froze with his hand hovering mid-air.

“I don’t think your bird likes me very much,” he stated.

Joly looked up to glance between the two, eyebrows drawn in confusion. “I’m sure that isn’t true,” he replied, tapping Charlie gently on the end of his beak; the parrot turned his attention back towards him, ‘kissing’ the pad of his finger. “he might not be used to you yet. Isn’t that right, Charlie?” “Right,” the bird answered without missing a beat. Bossuet was a little off-put by how easily he always answered Joly. Did he truly understand what he was saying, or was he guessing…?

“It’s been almost a year, though,” Bossuet responded, a bit poutily. As convinced as he was that Charlie was out for blood, he was a little disheartened that the bird didn’t like him - or even seem to readily tolerate him, really. Joly hummed under his breath, looking back at Charlie almost questioningly. “Maybe it’s only because you don’t talk to him as much as me and ‘Chetta,” Joly concluded. “I’m sure he likes you; he’s just a little nervous. It took him a long time to get used to me, after all.”

Bossuet sighed, popping one of the little crackers into his mouth before he replied. “I don’t think that’s it. I think he wants you to himself, and I’m slowly becoming his enemy.” His boyfriend laughed, shaking his head; Charlie imitated that laugh almost eerily well, and Bossuet found himself gawking for a moment.

“No, that’s not it, either - he wouldn’t like ‘Chetta nearly as much as he does if he wanted all my attention.” He looked back over at Bossuet, as if set to say something else - but his eyes fell to the little bag of Goldfish sitting next to him, and Bossuet could almost hear the gears turning. The moment he had spoken, Bossuet felt his heart plummet:

“I have an idea.”

“Oh, no,” Bossuet started to protest. “whatever it is, I’m not doing it. I love you with all of my heart, but I am not doing it.”

“Just hear me out,” Joly chuckled, shaking his head fondly at him. And really, Bossuet couldn’t deny him that. It didn’t mean he’d go through with this idea of Joly’s, of course; but he could at least listen to it before he took a stance on it. “I can prove to you that Charlie doesn’t dislike you - because I promise, he doesn’t! Give him one of your Goldfish.”

Bossuet looked down almost appraisingly at the bag next to him. He didn’t have the best of luck with birds. They often bit him, screamed at him, pecked him - and if he got in close quarters with a bird as large as Charlie and offered him a tiny cracker just the size of his fingertip, there was no telling what the damage might be.

Joly, as if sensing his thoughts, smiled softly. “Just trust me on this one, alright…? You don’t have to, but I promise you he isn’t going to hurt you, love.”

Bossuet gave a heavy sigh, and plucked a Goldfish from the bag, looking down at it as if his fate was resting upon the tiny cracker. “Do you think Ferre will believe me when I tell him why I’m going in for stitches?”

“Bossuet.”

“It’s a fair question! I need another story ready in case he doesn’t.”

“You won’t need stitches. You don’t have to give him one at all, honest!”

“But I want to,” Bossuet countered stubbornly, getting up from the armchair and going to sit next to Joly on the couch. Charlie watched his every move - but he was not fluffing his feathers out defensively, or trying to get between him and Joly. It didn’t stop him from being a bit apprehensive as he settled down on the sofa, of course.

Slowly, Bossuet situated the Goldfish between his thumb and pointer finger, and held it up as if in offering.

Charlie considered the cracker for a long moment. He leaned down, plucking it gently from his fingers; his beak barely touched his skin, and he was just as careful as Bossuet had been in the exchange. 

Joly grinned, praising the bird for a moment before he leaned over to kiss Bossuet’s cheek. Feeling his smile against his skin was never any less heartwarming to him, and he could feel his own lips curling up in response. “See? He doesn’t dislike you. You just need to get used to each other.”

Bossuet reached up carefully to pet Charlie, who was munching happily on the Goldfish; he didn’t try to duck away from his hand, and he didn’t turn to bite him when he realized who was touching him.

“Maybe you’re right.” He conceded. “But I hope he doesn’t expect me to hand over all of my Goldfish that easily in the future.”

“Greedy,” Joly laughed.