Blog Post Title: “Julius the Cockatoo: Daycare Dilemma & Feathered Fury”

Let us set the scene.

You’ve just come back from a quick trip out of town. You’re feeling relaxed, refreshed, and excited to see your beloved pets again. You walk through the door with a smile on your face, arms open wide, ready for some reunion snuggles…

And then you hear it.

“SCREEEEEEEEEEECH!”

Enter: Julius.

Our majestic, moody, and very vocal umbrella cockatoo who has absolutely not forgiven us for the treasonous act of leaving him at bird daycare for a week.

Now to be fair, this wasn’t some shady, back-alley bird hotel. No, Julius stayed at a reputable bird boarding facility with toys, other feathered friends, a daily playlist of smooth jazz, and more snacks than even he could throw on the floor.

But does that matter to him?

Absolutely not.

In his eyes, we abandoned him to the wilderness.

The moment we picked him up, his body language said it all. Feathers fluffed. Crest high. Head tilted just so, like he was plotting something dramatic. We tried sweet talk. We tried offering almonds. He took the almond, threw it on the ground, and gave us a look that said: “You’ll pay for this betrayal… in screams.”

Since being home, Julius has been putting on a performance worthy of an Oscar. Dramatic sighs. Angry flaps. Side-eye so sharp it could cut glass. He’s even been practicing his loudest “WHAAAAT?!” for maximum emotional impact, usually delivered when we walk out of the room for more than three seconds.

And let’s not forget his favorite tactic: selective silence. Nothing unnerves you more than a cockatoo who is suspiciously quiet. It’s not peace. It’s plotting.

That said, for all his theatrics, he has slowly begun to forgive us. We caught him gently preening his toy earlier and muttering a few soft chirps, which we take as the first step toward reconciliation. (Though we’re still sleeping with one eye open.)

In the meantime, we’re bracing ourselves for the weeklong guilt trip he’s clearly planned, complete with early morning wake-up squawks, strategic poop placement, and sudden “accidental” flings of his food dish.

But hey—he’s Julius. The king. The diva. The sassy feathery storm cloud we love more than anything.

Just… next time we leave town, we’re going to need to run it by him first. And possibly draw up a contract. With snacks. And a written apology. Signed in blood (or at least mashed banana).

Welcome home, Julius.

We missed you.

Please don’t kill us in our sleep.