I write this post from the room that was once for dining, then for playing, and finally, given over to a much-loved doggie. It’s a room now dominated by two bookshelves and a large aviary bird cage. In the cage are two petite parakeets. (Are there any other kind of parakeets?)

They chirp merrily as morning sun floods the room with light. It is a pleasant way to begin the day and is why I once tried calling this the morning room. But that was too highfalutin a term and did not stick.

I observe the budgies. They are flitting from perch to perch, nibbling on a collard leaf, bobbing and feinting. Cleo has Hoffman coming and going. He dances to her tune. She’s the older woman, and he struggles to win her affection.

He warbles and chirps and cocks his head as if to ask, what do you think of that? Most of the time she can’t be bothered, but she provides just enough encouragement to keep him going.

Which is all to our benefit. He fills the house with song.

(A photo of Bart, one of Hoffman’s predecessors, similarly colored, though suffering from a rash at the time.)