Bluey originally came with her green companion, Greenie.
One day, the cage door opened – I still don’t know how – and both birds vanished into the sky.
Greenie never came back.
But Bluey did.
At first, she reappeared on the roofline, a little blue bird settled comfortably under the eaves, watching us like a guest deciding whether to stay for dinner.
I sprinkled some birdseed on the small flat spot on top of the cage outside.
Bluey would flutter down, eat quietly, then hop back up to her lookout above.
One afternoon, she somehow squeezed herself into a container I’d been using for bird seed.
I’d forgotten to put the lid on, and she took it as an invitation.
After eating her fill, she realised she couldn’t get back out, perhaps because she’d eaten a little too well, so I moved her gently into the cage.
I left the cage door open, waiting to see if she wanted to explore.
But she stayed where she was, calm and settled, so I gently closed it again.
She didn’t resist.
In fact, she looked relieved – as if the old cage still felt like the safest place she knew.
These days, Bluey’s cage sits outside, safely tucked beneath the roof.
In winter, when the nights turn sharp and cold, I wrap the cage with a warm blanket, leaving the front open so she can watch the world while staying warm and sheltered.
She seems to thrive in that balance – cosy, protected, yet free to observe everything around her.
Bella and Blizz often nap beneath her cage, a quiet pairing of fur and loyalty.
Some evenings, when a neighbour’s cat wanders too close, Bella dashes out as if declaring: “This is the B Family. Don’t even think about touching our Bluey.”
Animals may not speak our language, but their loyalties don’t need translation.
A few weeks ago, a very plump pigeon wandered into our house – the same one Bella and Blizz once chased off so enthusiastically that I assumed we’d never see it again.
But pigeons, it seems, don’t hold grudges.
If anything, this one returned with a friend.
The two now perch along the roof’s edge like returning characters in a long-running drama, waiting for Bella and Blizz to look away.
When they’re sure no one is watching, they glide down and head straight for any leftover pet food.
I closed the sliding door where Bella and Blizz’s bowl sits, thinking that would deter them.
But then Bluey’s food started disappearing far too quickly.
One tiny budgie couldn’t possibly eat that much.
Then I saw it – a scatter of seeds around the cage, a small trail leading to the ground, and there, pecking happily, were the two pigeons, including our old visitor.
That’s when it clicked:
Bluey hadn’t just accepted them – she had been quietly feeding them.
Some birds chirp – ours apparently runs a community charity.
Watching Bluey, I often think about choices.
Twenty-four years ago, I left China – a decision that meant missing the breathtaking speed of its transformation.
