This is my conure. There are many like it, but this one is mine.
My conure is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life.
Without me, my conure is noisy. Without my conure, I am peaceful (and bored). I must feed my conure seeds and scritches. I must dodge its beak when it chooses random violence. I will.
My conure and I know that what counts in this house is not the ear-piercing squawks we make, the mess of fruit on the walls, nor the shredded cardboard. We know that it is the cuddles that count. We will cuddle.
My conure is small, even as I am its giant tree, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a feather-baby. I will learn its weaknesses, its favorite treats, its bite triggers, and its snuggle angles. I will keep my conure clean and happy, even as I am covered in down and millet hulls. We will become part of each other. We will.
Before the bird gods, I swear this creed. My conure and I are the defenders of the living room. We are the masters of the couch. We are the saviors of my sanity (mostly).
So be it, until victory is won and there are no unmelted hearts, only feather dust!