A bird that I have actively detested for 16 years. What idiot buys their 10-year-old a bird with a 25-year life-span? Yeah. THIS idiot. And when said idiot's 10-year-old grows up and moves away to California (breaking her mother's heart in the process), guess where the bird ends up?
Yeah. At home, teaming up with his adopted brother (because heaven forbid JUST the 10-year-old have a bird! Guess what the 8-year-old decided to do with HER birthday money?!?) to terrorize me.
These pair of feathered raptors are loud, messy, and often explode into the air to dive-bomb me without provocation. Just attempting to change their water is to risk losing a finger. Savannah's bird (I don't know why we credit her with ownership as she hasn't cleaned a cage or bought birdseed in over a decade), Al, is the alpha bird, having plucked every feather from the back of his "pal" Percy's head long ago. Thanks to Al's menacing ministrations, poor Percy resembles a young Telly Savalas or a baby condor. I have never liked Al...my fingers are spotted with beak bites so that it looks like my digits were victimized by tiny vampires.
But I'm worried about my bird.
"Something's wrong with Al," Brad said, peering into the cage, perilously close to pecking-distance. I had noticed, keeping an eye on the situation from a safe six-feet away. Al has been known to easily spit a seed that far. A proud, indignant bird, Al is renowned for his posture...rearing up like a boxing kangaroo or a king cobra if you get too close. But lately, his feathered body rested...almost spilling over...on his feet. "He is getting older..." Brad mused speculatively, watching as Al thumped clumsily from his perch and scuttled away from my husband's unwelcomed health inspection. No one likes to be told that we're not young chickens anymore.
But things got worse. Al's aggressive air raids ended up with him dive-bombing the floor rather than us. The fighter jet that could land with keen precision on the top flight deck of his cage instead missed his mark, hitting an ocean of woodwork, splatting like a rotted plum as he struck the floor. Ground landings were usually only a momentary set-back for Al...he'd rest a moment, sneer at the startled dogs, and then take off again. But now...he just sat there, a little stunned, somewhat embarrassed...chagrined...until we intervened. Our assistance was accompanied by a vicious bite which I found weirdly reassuring.
"I think he had a stroke," Brad offered, looking up from his phone. I laughed uncertainly, surely he couldn't be serious. But he was. And the pieces fit. Al was definitely droopy and ungainly on one specific side. He looked (glared) at us now with a dominant eye. He scuttled about like ET and disconcertingly slept with his head angled awkwardly in his seed bowl like a drunk at a bar. What do we do? Suddenly, I was singularly focused on the well-being of my beloved bird. Was he suffering? We watched him obsessively. He was eating, drinking, pooping, and pecking us. All of the things he loved doing.
Some modifications were definitely needed. The penny drop from the top of The Empire State Building had to stop. To his credit, Percy alerted us immediately the minute Al took the plunge but we needed to curtail this soon-to-be-crippling dare-devil act. Safety rails were added to Al's cage. Wooden barriers acted as crib bumpers to both protect and support him while still allowing Al to enjoy his now one-eyed view of his domain (the living room).
My already sleepless nights were now plagued with worry and regret. I was a terrible bird owner. I had voiced my disdain, disgust, and dislike for these birds for years. I may have, once or twice, swatted that sucker out of the air as he aimed for my head. I may not have changed his water as regularly as recommended.
Brad grew even more concerned when I began crawling into bed at 3 am, shaking with sobs for my poor, sweet little bird. "You need to sleep," he told me (again). I nodded. "Regular exercise would be good for you," he encouraged (again). I sniffled and nodded. "An all-sugar diet isn't healthy," he pointed out (again). Uh-huh. "You need to stop obsessing and stay off the screens," he suggested (again). "This is bigger than the bird," he explained reassuringly, "This is ALL of your worries and feelings all balled up into one." Very helpful.
"If only we could do some sort of rehabilitation for him," Brad said during our now daily death-checks of Al. Mostly, he just sat with his head in the seed bowl unless we were aggravating him.
Wait.
That was it! After over sixteen years of being hen-pecked by a hostile bird, it was our turn. Several times a day now, Al receives short scheduled appointments of physical therapy through engaged "play." We are extending Al's life by annoying him. We talk to him and he swears in his birdie language and hisses at us. We walk around his cage so he is forced to turn to keep us in sight with his one good eye. Oddly enough, peek-a-boo seems to be his favorite. We'll talk and click to him and then suddenly "disappear" from his sight. He'll rush to the edge of his cage and peer down through the safety rails to look for us. We'll pop back up to talk some more and the game (or torture) begins again. Percy thinks we're all insane.
This bird can't die. Not now. I feel like I'm barely holding on by a tight, tenuous string and, should Al shake the dust from his feathers and head up to birdie heaven, I might just snap. If I have to continue playing kindergarten games with a cockatiel every day for the rest of my internment, I will...and gladly. Because I love that little bird.
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