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worried his peanut shells. Nora had emitted more than her share of pee-in-my-pants squawks. As long as I was back before the sun started to set, they’d be fine for the day.
    Though dark wouldn’t fully descend until around eight o’clock, the birds’ second sun salutation of the day began as soon as the blindingly golden light of late afternoon started slanting through the window blinds at a certain angle. They knew collectively, instinctively, that the sun was waning and it was time to celebrate. Walking down the sidewalk from where I’d parked, I could clearly hear the jungle concert in full force. I knew from that morning that thechorus shook the house. What must the neighbors think? I had yet to encounter anyone on the sidewalk during my walks with the dogs, but I was desperately curious to see their reaction to this twice-daily assault on the ears.
    Opening the screen door and then the weathered wooden front door, I could also hear the dogs’ frenzied growls and whines within. They turned tight circles in the living room while the birds made their joyful noise. With the front door open wide, Sasha and Max were out like ochre-furred bullets into the yard, turning larger and less-frenzied circles there until I opened the front gate out onto the sidewalk.
    At least one of the daily walks had to be long and vigorous enough to even come close to tiring these guys out. If I did it right, we’d get back to the house as the sun set, casting long lavender shadows over the low houses of the neighborhood.
    In Max and Sasha’s neighborhood, the sky was just as wide open as anywhere else in the East Bay, and I found myself standing on the sidewalk with my head thrown back, tracking jetliners as they inched across the darkening sky. I was used to the soaring trees of my Atlanta home. The dense green growth there shielded us from the Southern sun and limited our exposure to what filtered through the canopy, dappling the landscape with a shadowy, shifting light. I was already addicted to the bright, unobstructed California sunshine that drenched everything beneath the perpetually cloudless crystalline sky.
    I couldn’t speak for the dogs, but I was certainly tired out after our walk. Between all of my other visits that day, I hadn’t even walked that far—maybe five miles.
    Before heading upstairs for the night, I placed blankets over the cages, returning Sterling to his cage last.
    â€œGood night,” I said.
    â€œGood night,” he replied.
    It was barely nine o’clock, but I was ready to crawl into bed. I only hoped Sasha would lay off the kidney shots.
    I arrived at the house on my third evening of bird duty to find Bonsai’s cage spattered with red. The shells lining the bottom of the cage were flecked with white guano and the deep crimson of congealed bird blood. Sterling was perched high atop the armoire in the living room, looking like he’d swallowed a canary.
    â€œHello,” he called to me.
    â€œFuck!”
    The broom was lying across the kitchen floor, presumably dislodged by one of the dogs on their way to or from the back door. I extended my arm to Sterling, who turned his head demurely away.
    â€œI’m not asking. Come. Here. Now!” I used both hands to grab him, and he gave a squawk. Once he was locked in his cage with the broom in its right place, I opened Bonsai’s cage. He hopped nimbly up on my hand, favoring his left leg. His right leg was mangled, the blue gray of his skin torn and still bleeding. I’m not a bird expert, but I knew that birds do not have a lot of blood in their bodies to lose. At the pet store, we’d used a yellow powder to staunch the flow, in those rare instances when they had reason to bleed. This wasn’t covered in these birds’ notes, though, and I had no idea where to even start looking for a little bottle of coagulant.
    I placed Bonsai back in the cage and went to the garage where the bird