Anyone with twelve pet parakeets is a nut I think, crunching gingerly across the floor, eyes squinted to avoid fruit fly penetration, hands pocketed to avert one male parakeet’s landing. Danger lies in his vigorous humping: He chafes my hands. Droppings, seeds, and tiny fluffs of feathers, stick to my footskin and between my toes. I brush them off as I climb into her nestbed.