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See, last May, my Finchie turned 14 and was in a horrible state of mind. So was I. I watched my young man struggle with depression. He cried his way to sleep, he awoke in tears. His smile emerged on Friday afternoon and twisted into a fretful frown by Sunday afternoon. I knew the pain of 14 all too well. That was when I developed an ulcer. I can only now know that pain my mother must have felt, because it was more painful than childbirth, watching him hurt like he did and knowing that I couldn't help him. I hugged him, I kissed him, and I promised him that there was no worse time than being 14. I promised that High School would be better. But inside I worried that I wouldn't know when to let him struggle and when to get help. I didn't want him medicated through his teenage angst if that's "all" it was, because that's why you HAVE angst...to live through it and learn!

He wanted to be alone in his room. So, I compromised and for his birthday bought him 3 finches to care for. If he wanted to stay in his room, he'd have company and he'd have 3 little mouths relying on him to focus at least a little of his attention on them. He was surprised and elated.

One week later, 3 carcasses lay huddled in the nest.

He handled it well, and I dutifully ran around to 4 shops to find as identical finches as possible. They lived short but happy lives. The last 2 of the trio bit the dust during an end of summer computer game frenzy that blurred his memory about such trivialities as feeding the birds. When we discovered the crime scene, my Finchie burst into tears, and professed that he was to blame, that his irresponsibility and selfishness killed those innocent birds. ANd I did what I thought was best. I hugged him...and agreed with him.

He decided that he was done with the whole bird thing, and since he was finished with Middle School, life did indeed seem brighter as I had promised him. Oh, but I didn't think that was the right thing. I mean, you can't just neglect birds to death and say "Oh, I'm done with them anyway." It didn't seem like the right thing. So, despite his anger at me over it, I made him replace that last 2 birds. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know that they were gifts, but dammit they (birds + cage + supplies) cost me a lot! Once he forked over the money and I bought 2 new ones, I gave him the opportunity to give them up for adoption, and thus huny and Commodore became my fearsome zebra finches.

Commodore is a loud trumpeting male, cheeks bright orange. He is a fearsome builder of nesting areas. He wants real bad to hump huny. She is a white and gray zebra and unbuilds many of Commodores creations. She snuggles with him but violently refuses the mount. For months I have been waiting for and hoping for eggs, like a pushy mother awaiting grandkids. Nothing.

So I spoke up at work about this and one of the teacher says it's really odd since finches do nothing but screw lay eggs and push them out of the nest and lay more. She claims that finches are quite prolific. She asks if I am sure about their sexes. I reply that the cheek markings indicate male/female. She agrees that the cheeks give it away....except...in the case of the white zebra finches...you can't tell the sex of the white ones. SHIT! No WONDER huny has been protecting her...I mean HIS...ass!

I WANT BABIES! I WANT BABIES!!! So...I go out and buy 2 MORE finches. This time I pick out a brown female, easy to see that this one is a female (we name her "new honey"). And I also pick out another white one, as pure white as snow (named "Whitey"). My thinking is that if huny IS a male, since Whitey has not a single mark on it, perhaps it is a "she." It's also possible that it is another "he." But I take the chance.

When I got home, before I put the new finches in the cage, I made sure they had plenty of fresh seed and honey treats, their favorite (I spoil them rotten). I figured that it might be awkward introducing a new room mate and I wanted to make sure that no one felt the need to fight over food. So...I gingerly tip the birdie box into the cage. Whitey is handing on to the inside flap and isn't coming out. But the new honey comes out. And she no sooner emerged than she was immediately and brutally gang raped. Tag teamed. She shrieked. I stood there horrified, frozen in disbelief. My GOD! The humanity! I banged on the cage. Hell that just pumped them up more. They pressed her up against the cuttlebone and drove home again. Meantime, Whitey is double clutching the inside of that box. I think she was trying to close it from the inside. Eventually I thumped it hard enough to evict her, and she dove into a corner.

She was safe though, because the boys were a bit shagged out by then. While new honey whimpered and trembled all alone on her perch, wondering what the HELL hit her, the boys were leaning back in their loft, chirping little content sounds of satisfaction and smoking millet sticks.

God, I feel so GUILTY!

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