Valentine Surprise

Almost four years ago, I was given a pair of parakeets and a cage for Valentine's Day by my then-fiancee. I was unprepared for the sudden appearance of these creatures. My parakeet, Fliegle, had been killed by cats several years before during a tragic house-sitting disaster. Fliegle had lived in three different cities with me, had traveled across the country from the Midwest (both Chicago and Wisconsin) to New York several times, and had been a fluent talker and friend to me for nearly two and a half years. He had cost only $7 from a breeder and we had bonded when he was half-feathered right out of the nest.

I had vowed never to get a bird again until my life was completely stable to avoid any possibility of another tragic loss. Yet here were TWO birds, which I had neither wanted nor chosen. And coming from a long background of single-parakeet pet situations, I knew that the key to making a bird into a "flying dog substitute" was much simpler with just ONE baby parakeet to train.

My girlfriend had had good intentions and was hurt by my decision to return the birds and cage to the pet store. I returned both the parakeets because one had by injured by the cage. I the purchased another baby parakeet and cage elsewhere (despite my reservations about owning ANY bird) just to appease my partner.

Cirrus was an aptly named little sky blue parakeet, with white across her chest. She became tamer and sweeter as the days and months passed. She was not yet talking when another accident occurred. Cirrus jumped off my shoulder unexpectedly and, being clipped, landed on the far edge of a large-leafed Dieffenbachia next to me. I panicked immediately and rushed to grab my baby! This plant is commonly known as dumb cane, since in humans it supposedly paralyzes the muscles of the throat, and/or causes the tongue to swell if ingested. Knowing its poisonous reputation, I grabbed Cirrus and threw her under the cold water faucet! Cirrus had only grabbed the upper edge of the leaf with her beak to prevent herself from slipping on the angled leaf. She had not even eaten a piece of the leaf, but damage was done!

Despite my emergency rinsing of her beak, she stopped making peeps or whistles or kisses. My sweet, happy, tame little girl became skittish, shy and withdrawn.

Coincidental to this event, and the setback it posed to our relationship and training, I soon began to suspect that my fiancee was deathly allergic to this Cirrus, since she coughed violently and constantly when around the bird. She denied that it was Cirrus, but with time it became clear that this parakeet who would not or could not make a sound, was the cause of my fiancee's severe asthma attacks.

Despite my fiancee's protests, poor Cirrus was "temporarily" adopted out to my mother--the bird lady of the Bronx. My mother, who had purposely chosen to lead a parakeet-free life for years, protested. She had grown weary of being almost invariably the one present when each parakeet breathed its last. Also, she had become "Mrs. Clean" in the bird-free years, choosing an absence of bird poop over the delight of companionship of a tiny talking beast in her life. Nevertheless, she "welcomed" Cirrus into her home.

For months, my mother and I argued about the mental abilities of Cirrus. Every time she said that Cirrus was not very bright, I defended her--citing shock, trauma, and probable physical damage that the plant toxin had apparently caused. She constantly compared Cirrus to the long line of other birds we had owned ... to which my only reply was that they had never sustained the damage that this bird had. Cirrus, once friendly, was now fearful of everyone and everything.

Soon though, Cirrus came around and begin to reacquire the sweet qualities lost in the poisoning trauma. She began to seek my mother's company around the house and to squeak and squawk adorable duets when my mother sang to her. She would sit on anyone's foot and nibble at their toes until laughter filled the room. Cirrus would also fall asleep in my mother's hand and would practically disappear down my mother's throat searching for some kind of human food (this was before we knew that bacteria from human saliva are potentially deadly to birds). Well this joyful relationship blossomed for about a year until another tragedy struck. Cirrus had been playing next to her cage one day and either climbed or fell into a sheet which was draped to cover a huge wall mirror. One of her nails had gotten caught in the fibers of the sheet put up to protect her and, unable to extricate herself, Cirrus had died. She was still warm when I found her body; I did not read about successful attempts at pet bird CPR until months later.

My mother was seriously affected by her baby's accidental death. My mother cried and cried and cried some more I decided that the only solution to this crisis was to purchase another bird immediately. After work that day, we went to a local parakeet breeder, who fed her birds natural, organic foods, and a great variety of fresh produce. Her birds appeared happy, healthy and well-adjusted. The breeder handled all the birds daily and worked in her home. We knew the babies got plenty of positive attention before they went to their new homes.

Charlie Bird entered the scene that night. Soon, it was clear to me that Charlie Bird was helping her to cope. Certain comparisons between him and "her little girl" were inevitable. These contrasts also led to the same type discussions about brains and personality regarding this bird as we had before about Cirrus. She confessed to me at one point months after getting Charlie Bird that she still cried every day about the death of "her little girl."

Charlie took a few months to winmy mother's heart, but the transition is now complete. Charlie Bird is also interested in feet. Actually, he has a full foot fetish! He is enamored of feet in any guise ... bare, in socks, hidden in shoes or even boots! He moves along the floor in a walk-run-fly-glide trying to prevent those feet from leaving him. He talks up a storm all the time now. His vocabulary is full of phrases including: "My name is Charlie Bird. I'm a parakeet! Crazy bird. Evil chicken. Call the police. Charlie is a good bird!" and various combinations of the above words. He mixes "What are you doing" with "When do we eat?" into a peculiar "What're you when do we eat?"

The stories about Charlie are endless, but one of the funniest occurred the day the electrician was working in my mother's house. Sprawled out on the floor, Albert was busy installing a new outlet inside a cabinet at the base of a wall. Suddenly, the air was punctuated by the loud question, "What are you doing?" He immediately dislodged his head and body, and turned around to answer. Looking at my mother as if she perhaps was having a slight loss of memory, he replied that he was doing the work she'd hired him to do. She began to laugh while informing Albert that little Charlie Bird, perched on the back of the chair watching him, was the person who asked him what he was doing! They both had a good laugh.

My favorite words from this tiny bird are, "Roger, Roger! Bring me a beer! Beer!" Charlie plays by himself with rolling penguins, plastic wagons, Ferris wheels, and even a bird with a microchip that tweets as he pecks at it. Charlie likes to sit by himself on the bathroom sink for hours when. I suppose that he worships the porcelain god at his side since he is fascinated by flushing toilets and running water.

Last, Charlie is attracted by Oiseau, my Meyer's parrot. Oiseau, on the other foot, doesn't share these some loving thoughts about Charles. Charlie "helicopters" around Oiseau incessantly, hoping for a change in his "nephew's" demeanor. (Charlie is 6 months older than Oiseau.) The other day Charlie landed on Oiseau's back while Oiseau was on my back. Fortunately Oiseau was either caught sleeping or else the hand is truly quicker than the beak! Charles is also fascinated by me when I am around, so when I have Oiseau on me, my mother has a difficult time getting any attention from Prince Charles. Charlie and my mother have a game they play together every night. She calls it "Boomerang." It goes like this: Charlie loves a little silver bell that is attached to the telephone. My mother sits on the couch, rings his bell, and he plays until she scoops him up in her hand. He often squats down flat waiting to be captured. During the game, he talks and whistles incessantly because he is so excited. Once she has him in her hand, she tosses him in the air and he does a mid-air tumble to return immediately to the playing field. This is how Charlie gets conned into going to bed and having his 10 p.m. snack in his cage. Charlie is winning the game, however, since he now sometimes refuses to play if it is near his bedtime. My mother swears he can tell time! He's a little more than two years old now. Who knows what else he'll pick up in the next decade?