After the wedding, Catherine moved into my (our!) apartment and we set about reshuffling the layout and decor to suit a married couple and their foofy cat. Part of the reshuffling has involved moving both of our computers to a second bedroom and establishing a makeshift "work/writing/gaming room."

This is fine and good and working out well until we find a house to move into once the lease runs out. The only hitch is, well... the goldfinch.

There is, you see, a tiny yellow bird that flies, every day, to the window in our workroom. He clings to the screen and pecks desperately at the glass, ratta-tatta-tatta style, like a tiny confused woodpecker. Or... glasspecker? Something like that. Every morning, every afternoon -- he's there, desperately tapping out his SOS to the universe. [[Abby]], our fluffy orange cat, has been adjusting well to apartment life and has now taken to sitting beneath the windowsill, staring intently up at the goldfinch's usual spot. When he arrives (tappatappatappa!) she stares -- really, really stares -- and mouths idly, drooling perhaps, or fantasizing about broiled or roasted goldfinch. The bird, obvlivious, taps on.

One of these days, I think I'm going to find Abby with a glass cutter and a bottle of catsup.

UPDATE: Catherine has decided to name the goldfinch Henry. I approve.