*birds in order from left to right: bluish, whitish, peep, silly guyawesome names courtesy of Wendy
Ryan: Uh... babe? I only see 3 birds in the cage. I think Whitish is missing.
Me: No, my eyes play tricks on me sometimes too, because Whitish gets lost against the white cage and white wall behind it. Maybe you should check again.
Ryan: ...No, there are definitely only three birds in here.
That is when I drop whatever it is I'm doing/holding, pick up my 30 lb baby and quickly exit the patio/playroom. I announce to Ryan that I refuse to go out there until the bird is found, and since that is where my treadmill is located, he is going to have a fat, grumpy, tired, unhealthy wife if he doesn't find it soon. (at this time, the room is a DISASTER. I'm talking can't-see-the-floor-under-all-the-toys disaster. Millions of little, tiny toys. Like squinkies and legos tiny. So it was actually pretty easy to loose a living, flying animal in there).
A couple days later my father-in-law found him in the doll house with all the barbies. I can just imagine that little bird checking out those hoochie dolls from across the room and planning his escape to get to them. My awesome father-in-law chased Whitish all over the patio (incredibly, without tripping and breaking his neck) and put him back for me. So, no harm no foul, but now I can't go out there without obsessively, compulsively counting the four birds a couple times. Dang pets. They're just glorified food storage. (don't tell Ryan I said that)

