Perhaps you've heard we got Zebra Finches? A pair of them, a nest made of woven raffia, and two dowels for them to perch on and on which they perch and look at us askance through their black, sesame-seed-sized eyes.
Because they chirp so gaily and preen, I attribute personalities to them. The male, Atticus, is a tireless Cassanova. All day long he sings of pleasures. Cheep, cheep, cheep. The female, Finchessa, is no fool; I can tell you this because she slept in the seed feeder, as you or I would nap in a creme brûlée. Wouldn't you, if you could?
Of course, they are in an untenable situation - in a cage, in my kitchen - but like so many pets before them, they are rolling with it with pluck and aplomb. In fact, they (well, Atticus) is singing a courtship song to Finchessa that is all tenor warble.
We're all living in captivity aren't we? Yet, as Oscar Wilde says, some of us are looking at the stars.