I talked to The Kids today who are visiting their Nanna.
Nanna has become mother to all the orphaned native birds around her home town (as well as mother to me of course) and is currently hand-raising a nest of cockatiels.
My Kids were given the supreme privilege of naming their own birds.
(I suspect it’s a ruse to off-load a few of the little feathered fiends our way but it’s not going to happen I can tell you.)
Being quite literal and observant little munchkins, they proudly told me their respective beaky pals’ names.
‘Big Fluffy Head’ and ‘Spot’.
I’d still be rolling around on the floor laughing except I suddenly had a flashback to my own childhood of mismatched pets:
Fluffy the persion-cross cat.
Woolly the poodle-cross dog.
And Nippy the just-plain-cross budgerigar.
The Man named his pets exciting, sleek (or just plain rude) names like Rebel and Snatch.
I think I’m going to have to take full responsibility for the ‘can’t-see-the-imaginative-name-for-the-bloody-obvious’ gene that they’ve all inherited.
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