The Accidental Walkabout

Han and Leia moved into the greenhouse.

This sounds simple. It was not entirely simple. Within the first few days I discovered they’d been flying up to roost in the upper windows every night, which meant they needed an actual branch to grip. The branch I cut came in at sixty pounds and took two people to install. Han and Leia used it on their schedule, appreciated it on their schedule, and have never once acknowledged the effort.

But they were out of the rabbit hutch, which meant Morpheus and Neo could finally move up.

What I Noticed

Morpheus and Neo graduated to the rabbit hutch.

They were thrilled. You could tell. They ran the length of it immediately — back and forth, back and forth — confirming the square footage like birds who had been promised this and were now verifying the terms.

The porch, for the first time in months, had breathing room.

Sort of.

When I let them out on the porch floor, they followed me.

Not in a vague, loosely-in-the-same-direction way.

Right behind me. Both of them. Wherever I went, they went. If I stopped, they stopped. If I turned around, two small birds were looking up at me waiting for the next development.

They were underfoot constantly. On my feet, behind my feet, in the way of my feet. The porch that had just gotten its breathing room back was already a minefield of small birds who had decided I was the most interesting thing in it.

Which is how I found out they would follow me anywhere.

The Cat Carrier

My first idea was a proper field trip.

I had an enclosed garden area outside — big enough to explore, secure enough that nobody was getting lost. Good bugs. Real dirt. I got out the cat carrier.

Morpheus and Neo had opinions about the cat carrier.

These opinions were unanimous and loud.

I managed to get them in. I managed to get them to the garden. I got them out. They ran every inch of that space with the energy of birds who had been waiting their whole short lives for exactly this.

Then I had to get them back in the carrier.

I managed it once.

Once.

The carrier was retired. We do not talk about it.

Which left an obvious question.

How to get them outside

I opened the porch door, stepped outside, and looked back.

Morpheus and Neo looked at the door. Looked at me.

And walked out.

We started small — two weeks on the driveway, short loops, nothing ambitious. They stayed right behind me, investigating gravel, pecking at things that probably weren’t food, conducting whatever quality-control process a peachick runs on a gravel driveway.

Then I started wondering how far they’d actually go.

300 Yards

My parents live next door. About 300 yards of open ground between us.

I turned and started walking.

Morpheus and Neo followed.

Not just to the edge of the yard. Not just partway. The whole distance, through the grass, single file.

My parents were sitting outside in lawn chairs. The birds walked right up, looked around, and immediately found the dense scrub-grass area at the edge of the yard that apparently ticked every box a peachick has for an ideal afternoon.

They burrowed into it. Sat down. Looked extremely satisfied.

When my parents held out treats, both birds came right over and jumped up to investigate — checking pockets, checking hands, checking whether any of this was edible.

It was, by every measure, a success.

The Weekly Ritual

This became a thing.

Every week, same route, same visit. My parents waiting in the lawn chairs, the birds heading straight for the scrub grass and then circling back for treats. Neo and Morpheus getting comfortable with different ground, different trees, different sounds.

When it was time to go, I’d turn around and start walking back.

They followed.

Every time.

All the way home. Up into the porch. Down for dinner. Done.

I want to be clear that none of this was a training program. The walkabouts were the accidental result of a cat carrier that only worked once and two birds who’d decided I was worth following.

But every time I tried to let them spend time near Han and Leia, I got the same answer. The older birds made it clear immediately and without subtlety that “nearby” was not an option they were offering.

So the walkabouts were what we had instead.

And they were, against all odds, exactly enough.