A bird in hand

We keep our patio door wide open during these warm summer days, and the other morning a curious Blue Tit overshot the birdfeeder and landed right inside our living room. I didn’t notice him until Jake stumbled by in his arthritic clumsiness; it put the little creature into a flutter and gave away his hiding place behind the curtain.

I put my hands out to catch him  and called a soft “psich psich” as I reached out, hoping to let him know that I meant no harm. It seemed to work. He calmed right down, and didn’t object when I carefully cupped his fragile little body. But I was too concerned about hurting him; although he allowed me to handle him he quickly become impatient with my diffidence, and squirmed right out of my hands and onto my index finger. I straightened up in surprise and turned toward Laird with my little passenger; Laird’s eyebrows shot up, and his eyes and mouth softened into an “awwwww…”. I was pretty filled with awe myself. I turned again, walked out to the patio and sat down, and the little bird stayed on my finger for a full five minutes. Laird and I chuckled at the little fellow’s interest in us, he looked me up and down and stared me in the eye, and swivelled his head to study Laird quite thoroughly too. I was utterly charmed. Finally, reluctantly, the little fellow flew off into the bushes.

I often wonder now whether this bird now recognizes me when I step out the door, but I’m sure we humans all look alike to him. And more confusingly, we change our plumage every morning. How’s a bird to know who’se who?