Chapter 10
Millie
The next morning, I bounce up to Callum’s door, ecstatic about the prospect of spending the night here.
My offer to him kind of just slipped out, but I don’t regret it.
I want to help, especially when it’s about an adorable creature like Fergie.
The poor guy doesn’t deserve to be alone all night.
That said, I know my dad won’t like this, which brings an uneasy feeling to the pit of my stomach.
I haven’t told him about this pet sitting gig—for obvious reasons.
I guess he’s right, in a way. It’s a bit outside the scope of my job description.
But I know it’s not as sketchy as he’d make it out to be, and being friendly with Callum will help me do my job more efficiently.
I have to trust my gut on this one. Plus, Callum won’t even be there while I’m pet-sitting. That’s the whole point.
I ring the doorbell, and Callum opens right away, his hair still damp from the shower.
“Hullo, come in. Thanks for getting here so early.”
“No problem.” I smile, stepping into the now-familiar home.
The cedar-clean scent I noticed before wraps over me like a warm blanket, and I breathe it in.
The team has to leave early for Manchester, and I wanted to make sure I knew everything about watching Fergie beforehand.
I’m a hundred percent certain Callum will murder me if I harm his bird in any way.
“I was about to make his food. Maybe you can watch?” Callum suggests, scratching the back of his head. “It’s pretty straightforward, but he has a strict diet. Pellets with fresh fruit and veggies—courgette, apple, steamed broccoli, that kind of thing.”
My eyes bulge. “Wow! I didn’t know I’d have to cook for him.”
He gives me a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s holding back a smirk. “Already regretting this, eh?”
“I wouldn’t say that. I’m just not the best cook, that’s all.”
“Don’t worry, he doesn’t need a Michelin-star dining experience,” he says, grabbing a small chopping board and a ceramic bowl. “Mostly raw stuff. No salt, no oil, no seasoning. He’s basically a clean-eating influencer with wings.”
I chuckle. “Does he do yoga, too?”
“He prefers salsa dancing,” Callum deadpans, reaching into the fridge.
I blurt out a laugh, leaning against the counter and watching as he pulls out a handful of small containers—prepped slices of red pepper, peeled apple, chunks of courgette, and steamed broccoli florets. Each container is neatly labelled and stacked, like he’s running a health retreat.
“You pre-cut everything?” I ask, impressed.
He shrugs, measuring a few pieces of each ingredient into the bowl. “Makes it easier when I’m crunched for time before practice.”
He adds a spoonful of pellets from a tin on the counter, mixing them gently with the produce.
“He can’t have avocado, onion, garlic, chocolate, caffeine—basically any of the fun stuff. Grapes are fine, and berries are great, but only a few at a time or he gets hyper.”
“Noted,” I say, watching him pour the mix into a smaller ceramic dish with the name “Fergie” painted on the side in smudged blue letters.
Callum rinses his hands and nods at the bowl. “You can give him that now. And if you need to bribe him to behave, he loves walnuts. Just a quarter, though. Not too much.”
“Right,” I say, carefully picking up the bowl. “So, no chocolate soufflé?”
“Only on Saturdays,” he says with a perfectly straight face.
I glance at him, amused. “You know, you’re funnier than people give you credit for.”
He shrugs again, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Or amusement. It’s hard to tell with him. He dries his hands on a tea towel and leans one hip against the counter.
“I’ll write everything down, if you’d like,” he says. “Feeding times, his preferred veggies, how to trick him into settling down at bedtime.”
I flash him a smile. “Thank you. Although, I think I got it. It’s only one day.”
“Aye, right then.” He claps his hands. “Let’s go feed your influencer, and then I’ll show you the safety stuff.”
We head upstairs. As soon as we step into Fergie’s room, the little green whirlwind perks up in his cage like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Millie!” he shrieks, flapping his wings with such force, the paper lining the bottom of his cage rustles. “Millie pretty!”
I grin. “Hey, little guy.” Stepping closer, I hold out the dish carefully.
“Cuddles,” he demands, sidestepping quickly along his perch.
Callum sighs. “Just look at what you’ve done to him.”
“I regret nothing,” I say, slipping my hand gently through the open side of the cage. Fergie immediately bows his head, all fluffed up and delighted, while I scratch the soft feathers atop his head. He clacks his beak gently, the sound melting my heart more than I care to admit.
Once his cuddle quota is satisfied, Callum reaches in and swaps out the old food dish for the one we just prepped. Fergie doesn’t even wait—he dives right in.
“So,” Callum says. “This next part is important. He gets what’s called ‘free flight’ time twice a day.
Usually early morning, then again when I get home.
It’s not just for exercise—it keeps him mentally stimulated.
You don’t have to fly him or anything dramatic.
Just let him out of the cage to explore for a bit.
He usually stays nearby, but if you’re watching TV downstairs, he’ll likely come watch with you.
He loves the music and sports channels.”
I nod, mentally jotting down his instructions as I glance around.
The room is practically a parrot playground.
There’s a climbing rope stretching from one bookshelf to a corner perch, a window seat with padding, and what can only be described as an explosion of colourful toys: bells, chew blocks, and cute puzzle balls.
Callum follows my gaze. “He needs a lot of enrichment. If he gets bored, his destructive side comes out. There’s a whole bin of toys under the cabinet, but I just tossed some new ones in his cage this morning.”
As if on cue, Fergie looks up from his bowl, tilts his head, and chirps. “Whatcha doing?”
I laugh. “He’s so nosy.”
“He needs to know everything. It’s his house—we’re just guests here.”
Fergie repeats, louder now, “Whatcha doing, whatcha doing?”
“I’m just showing Millie your stuff. Keep eating,” Callum tells Fergie, and he goes back to his bowl.
“So, when you let him out, obviously make sure no windows are open. And try to know where he is at all times, though I’m guessing that won’t be a problem with you. He does like to play hide and seek, though.”
I nod, imprinting this multitude of info in my mind. I wonder how Callum does it. Caring for Fergie seems like another full-time job. “Do I have to bathe him, or is that something he does on his own?”
“Good question. Fergie actually loves baths.” He walks over to a shelf and picks up a shallow plastic dish.
“This is his bathtub. He usually washes up every other day, but he might ask for it. So if you feel like it, just fill it with lukewarm water and set it in his cage or on the kitchen counter, and he’ll hop right in. ”
“Whatcha doing?” Fergie asks yet again, perking up.
“Just showing Millie your bath,” Callum explains. “And no, we’re not taking one now.”
“Bath time,” Fergie squawks, hopping on his little perch.
“No, you just bathed last night,” Callum repeats, firmer now, before stealing a glance at me. “Don’t hesitate to stand your ground.”
“Okay. Anything else I should know? Do I have to clean the cage?”
Callum winces. “Aye, the-not-so-glamorous stuff.”
“What am I in for, exactly? Do I need gloves? A hazmat suit?”
He lets out a low chuckle, and my stomach does a little jiggly dance. “It’s not that bad. He’s pretty tidy for a parrot, but yeah—you’ll have to scoop out the droppings once a day and change the cage lining. There are paper rolls in the cabinet, here.” He opens the cabinet to show me.
“Whatcha doing?” Fergie nips at the side of his cage.
“He gets all worked up when we’re in his space but not paying attention to him,” Callum says. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he sighs. “All right, come on then.”
When Callum opens the cage, Fergie flits onto his arm, shuffling up his forearm to perch on his shoulder.
“Should I show you how to play with him?”
“Oh yes.” I nod. “The fun stuff.”
Callum scratches the side of Fergie’s neck gently before picking one of the puzzle toys from a low shelf. It’s shaped like a wheel, with little compartments that open and close.
“This is his favourite game,” he explains, setting the toy on the floor and crouching beside it. “He has to turn the dial to open the compartments and find the treats inside. You just put tiny bits of walnut in there and close them up. Watch.”
I kneel beside Callum as he shows me where to place the treats. Fergie flutters down from his shoulder, eyes already locked on the wheel. With almost shocking precision, he nudges the dial with his beak, then twists it with his foot until the first lid pops open.
“Impressive,” I breathe out.
Fergie pulls out the walnut and releases a triumphant whistle before looking at us both. “Smart boy!”
Callum stands up. “I wish I had time to show you more, but I’ve got to go.”
Fergie cocks his head, his beady eyes glinting with mischief. “You lose.”
I press my lips together to keep from laughing, but Callum just sighs and turns to me with a blank expression. “See how encouraging he is?”
Before I can reply, Fergie launches into a raucous, off-key tune I don’t recognize, his little body rhythmically bobbing from side to side.
Callum groans and scoops him up with practiced ease, returning him to his cage. “Football anthem of the London Lions,” he mutters. “Not who we’re playing tonight, but he likes to torment me.”
I can’t suppress my laughter this time, giggles bursting out of me. “Why don’t you teach him the Regents anthem?”
Callum arches an eyebrow as he locks the cage. “Don’t you think I’ve tried? It’s no use. Annoying me is his favourite pastime. That, and sabotaging any sleep I try to get.”
Fergie lets out a victorious cackle, clearly proud of himself.
“Oh—and,” Callum adds, swinging to face me, “if you wake up to a fire alarm, don’t panic. It’s probably him.”
My eyes widen. “Right. I forgot about that.”
“He likes to keep the adrenaline flowing.”
“Speaking of,” I say, glancing down the hallway. “Where do I sleep?”
“Right.” Callum rubs the back of his neck. “Almost forgot. I’ve got three spare bedrooms—two on the top floor and one at the end of the hall here.”
“I’ll take this one,” I say, pointing down the hall. “Closer to Fergie. Just in case.”
“I figured you’d say that.” His lips twitch, the corners curling into a half smile that I wish he'd just fully embrace. I’m dying to see his smile again.
“Well,” he says, turning back to the cage and reaching through the bars. “Ferguson, I’ll see ye in the morn.”
Fergie flies to him, perching on Callum’s forearm and bowing his head for a parting scratch.
“Be good, okay?”
“Good boy,” Fergie chirps back, sweet and smug.
“See you in a bit, Fergie,” I say with a wave as we both exit the room.
From the stairs, I can still hear his cheerful voice echoing behind us: “Millie pretty! Millie pretty!”
Callum shakes his head, but there’s warmth in his eyes. “He does like to watch football,” he says casually. “Put the match on tonight, if you want. You don’t have to watch it yourself, but he likes to heckle the players. Especially me.”
“You two seem to have a great relationship,,” I say, my voice coming out unexpectedly soft.
“He grew on me with time, I’ll admit,” he mutters under his breath, as if he’s surprised by the truth of it.
“What if he gets sick?” I ask, my voice pitching up at the idea of being solely responsible for Callum’s only pet. “Who do I call? What breed is he? Does he have, like, an ID? A tiny parrot passport or something?”
Callum huffs out a laugh. “Relax. He’s a yellow-naped . And yes, he’s microchipped. All his info is right here.” He opens a drawer in the entryway and pulls out a neat little folder. “Vet info, medical history…”
I nod, absorbing each word as though I’m being entrusted with a very loud, very colourful child. “Okay. I got this. I’ll be back tonight to watch him.”
“Thanks again for doing this,” Callum says, his tone genuine. “If he gives you any trouble, just use your most menacing voice.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Not sure I have one, but sure.”
He looks down, chuckling. “You can text me before and after the match if you need anything, of course. Oh, and help yourself to anything in the fridge.”
After we exchange numbers, he hands me a key and tells me the alarm code. I repeat it back to him twice, just to be sure.
As he walks me to the door, I pause, hand on the knob.
“See you tomorrow, then?” I say, smiling. “And… have a good game.”
His gaze lingers on me for a beat longer than necessary. Then, with a nod, he rumbles, “Thanks. We’ll try not to lose. Though, if we do, at least one of us will be thrilled about it.”
From upstairs comes a proud, “You lose!”
We both crack up, struggling to rein in our laughter.
“Unreal,” I say, still chuckling as I step out into the soft drizzle.
Callum calls after me, “Don’t teach him anything new, okay?”
“No promises!” I shout back.
The door closes behind me with a soft click, but the smile stays glued to my face the whole way home.