“Wow, no ‘hello’? Straight to business, huh?” I tease, walking in with a laugh. “Good thing you’re cute.”
“Cuddles,” he demands, stretching his neck toward the bars.
I reach in and scratch the top of his head, which earns me a delighted chirp. He presses into my fingers like a needy puppy, and I feel my shoulders relax.
“Play,” he says again. “Puzzle!”
“All right, puzzle time,” I say, opening the cage door.
He flutters down eagerly, hopping from the perch to my arm before launching himself toward the carpet. I grab the wheel puzzle Callum showed me this morning.
“You ready for this?”
“Puzzle! Puzzle!” Fergie chants, already tapping the wheel with his beak like an impatient game show contestant.
Suppressing my laughter, I sit cross-legged on the rug and place tiny walnut pieces into three of the compartments before clicking the lids shut. “Okay, let’s see those skills.”
With laser focus, Fergie grips the dial with his claw and gives it a practiced twist. The first compartment pops open with a satisfying click, and he nabs the treat like a champ.
“Wow, you don’t mess around.”
“Smart boy!” he chirps proudly, giving himself a spin and ruffling his feathers.
My smile widens. “You are.”
Returning his attention to the wheel, he opens a second compartment just as quickly, chomps down on the walnut piece, then struts in a circle like he’s the star of a halftime show.
“Again!” he squawks, looking at me expectantly. “Millie, puzzle!”
“All right, all right.” I reset the puzzle, this time hiding one of the treats in a trickier slot. He notices immediately, and when I set the wheel down, he twists the dial and pops it open without even hesitating.
“You’re just showing off now.”
“Treat!” He spins toward me, looking smug.
As we keep playing, I start to lose track of time. The rain has picked up outside, tapping gently against the windowpanes, and I realise the match is going to start soon.
Fergie bumps his beak against my hand. “Again?”
I smile. “How about dinner? You hungry?”
“Hungry. Eat now,” he chirps, flapping his wings in anticipation.
“Okay. You’re coming downstairs with me, then? We can watch Callum on TV together."
“Callum lose,” he announces with glee, his voice full of mischief.
Laughing, I stand up and we head downstairs, Fergie preferring to stretch out his wings rather than perch on my arm.
I start with his food, carefully preparing everything like Callum showed me. Fergie comes dancing on the counter.
“No courgette,” he says flatly.
I cast him an amused glance. “Fine. How about broccoli?”
“Hungry,” he replies, doing a little tap dance. “Eat now.”
“Got it.”
