“Only on Saturdays,” he says with a perfectly straight face.
I glance at him, amused. “You know, you’re funnier than people give you credit for.”
He shrugs again, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Or amusement. It’s hard to tell with him. He dries his hands on a tea towel and leans one hip against the counter.
“I’ll write everything down, if you’d like,” he says. “Feeding times, his preferred veggies, how to trick him into settling down at bedtime.”
I flash him a smile. “Thank you. Although, I think I got it. It’s only one day.”
“Aye, right then.” He claps his hands. “Let’s go feed your influencer, and then I’ll show you the safety stuff.”
We head upstairs. As soon as we step into Fergie’s room, the little green whirlwind perks up in his cage like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Millie!” he shrieks, flapping his wings with such force, the paper lining the bottom of his cage rustles. “Millie pretty!”
I grin. “Hey, little guy.” Stepping closer, I hold out the dish carefully.
“Cuddles,” he demands, sidestepping quickly along his perch.
Callum sighs. “Just look at what you’ve done to him.”
“I regret nothing,” I say, slipping my hand gently through the open side of the cage. Fergie immediately bows his head, all fluffed up and delighted, while I scratch the soft feathers atop his head. He clacks his beak gently, the sound melting my heart more than I care to admit.
Once his cuddle quota is satisfied, Callum reaches in and swaps out the old food dish for the one we just prepped. Fergie doesn’t even wait—he dives right in.
“So,” Callum says. “This next part is important. He gets what’s called ‘free flight’ time twice a day. Usually early morning, then again when I get home. It’s not just for exercise—it keeps him mentally stimulated. You don’t have to fly him or anything dramatic. Just let him out of the cage to explore for a bit. He usually stays nearby, but if you’re watching TV downstairs, he’ll likely come watch with you. He loves the music and sports channels.”
I nod, mentally jotting down his instructions as I glance around. The room is practically a parrot playground. There’s a climbing rope stretching from one bookshelf to a corner perch, a window seat with padding, and what can only be described as an explosion of colourful toys: bells, chew blocks, and cute puzzle balls.
Callum follows my gaze. “He needs a lot of enrichment. If he gets bored, his destructive side comes out. There’s a whole bin of toys under the cabinet, but I just tossed some new ones in his cage this morning.”
As if on cue, Fergie looks up from his bowl, tilts his head, and chirps. “Whatcha doing?”
I laugh. “He’s so nosy.”
“He needs to know everything. It’s his house—we’re just guests here.”
Fergie repeats, louder now, “Whatcha doing, whatcha doing?”
“I’m just showing Millie your stuff. Keep eating,” Callum tells Fergie, and he goes back to his bowl.
“So, when you let him out, obviously make sure no windows are open. And try to know where he is at all times, though I’m guessing that won’t be a problem with you. He does like to play hide and seek, though.”
I nod, imprinting this multitude of info in my mind. I wonder how Callum does it. Caring for Fergie seems like another full-time job. “Do I have to bathe him, or is that something he does on his own?”
“Good question. Fergie actuallylovesbaths.” He walks over to a shelf and picks up a shallow plastic dish. “This is his bathtub. He usually washes up every other day, but he might ask for it. So if you feel like it, just fill it with lukewarm water and set it in his cage or on the kitchen counter, and he’ll hop right in.”
“Whatcha doing?” Fergie asks yet again, perking up.
“Just showing Millie your bath,” Callum explains. “And no, we’re not taking one now.”
“Bath time,” Fergie squawks, hopping on his little perch.
“No, you just bathed last night,” Callum repeats, firmer now, before stealing a glance at me. “Don’t hesitate to stand your ground.”
“Okay. Anything else I should know? Do I have to clean the cage?”
Callum winces. “Aye, the-not-so-glamorous stuff.”
