how green was my budgie

Evening at the chateau.

I am ensconced in front of the television rooting for General McChrystle.

Greeny Budgie is sitting happily on the crook of my elbow emitting the occasional conversational chirrup.

Presently I notice a meditative look settling on the budgie's feathery features.

This can mean one thing.

"Ma," I hiss to my aged parent who occupies the adjoining armchair. "Quick. Watch this."

The Mammy turns.

The budgie, as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, emits a little pooh pellet onto my elbow.

Then, with great deliberateness, she moves a few steps to one side, reaches down with her beak, and tosses the pooh from off my elbow onto the carpet.

"Have you ever seen the like of that?" I challenge the Mammy. "Would you ever have guessed that a little bird could show such courtesy and refinement? Imagine the way her mind is working. She doesn't want to leave a pooh on my arm because she knows I don't like them there. Isn't there a remarkable dignity crafted into creatures?"

The Mammy does not deign to reply.