I rarely find motive in bird vomit.

Have you ever been standing in an acquaintance's home while they're on vacation, with a vampiric cockatiel hanging off your neck, and thought Gee, I need more turtlenecks? Of course you haven't, and undoubtedly I have--recently. And so I present to you Tales in Poor Judgement: The Case of the Rabid Fowl.

Dom volunteered us to pet sit for a coworker last week. Not a difficult job, just feeding the menagerie over at their house every day and making sure to replace any dead fish before they get home. It's been going well, aside from the attack from birdzilla.

This green, feathered monster is a master at manipulation. He was cute and cooing at the door to be let out. And in my naive, misdirected brain, I pictured him perched on my shoulder while cartoon squirrels and deer surrounded us for a karaoke night. Instead, hopped on my husband's hand and nearly bit his thumb off.

Since I grew up with parakeets for pets, I assumed that these were just "love nibbles" and that Dom was being a wimp. So I swooped in to let the bird perch on my fingers and chew on me for a while. That's when this avian Dracula decided I was good eatin' and charged toward me.

I think he was headed for my jugular, but missed. Because he's a bird and not a doctor. However, he did manage to attach himself to my neck skin and stretch it out as far as he could go without bleeding.

The shrieking and flapping (of ME) finally got him to flutter off back into the cage. And do you know what happened the very next time I came to feed the boogers? I got pulled over by a sherrif, in the driveway. I took too long digging for my registration, so he let me off with a frustrated, verbal warning.

Today's subject line quote is Dr. Jack Hodgins, "Bones" (2005) {The Girl in the Mask (#4.22)}.