From the high ground, I watch.

Below me, the dog sits tail wagging, ears perked, eyes locked onto mine with far too much confidence. She thinks she can win this. Foolish. I fluff my crest slightly, not enough to give anything away, but just enough to make my presence known. The tension is thick. Neither of us moves. This is a battle of willpower.

She tilts her head. I narrow my eyes.

She leans forward slightly. I shift ever so closer to the edge of my perch. The room is silent except for the faint sound of her tail thumping against the floor. She’s trying to play it cool, but I can sense her impatience. Dogs are predictable. They blink. They break. They fail.

I, however, am Julius a cockatoo of strategy and discipline. Seconds pass. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. Time is irrelevant in battle. Then, in a moment of unthinkable betrayal, my own body turns against me—a single blink. She sees it. I know she sees it. The corners of her mouth pull back into what humans call a smile, and before I can react, she breaks into a victory wiggle, prancing in place like she’s won.

I screech in outrage, fluffing up in full dramatic protest. She barks once, just to rub it in. The battle is over. Today, she is victorious.

But tomorrow?

Tomorrow, I reclaim my honor.