Despite his mixed parentage, Puck is growing into a remarkably well-adjusted fellow. He has become affectionate, kindling a capacious maternal instinct I was heretofore unaware of. (I can't control my impulse to call him, "widdle Puckles" and bury my nose in his feathers, for example). Last night he climbed into my hands and then flew up onto my shoulder, where he gripped my flesh with his zygodactylic claws and checked my ears for mites. Oh, la. Puck wuv.
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