Every February, my family takes a one-week holiday someplace warm. Mother and Father, Joseph and Liza pack their bathing suits, sunglasses, and good books and head south. I do not join them because I am the bird.
Instead I go to Grandma and Grandpa’s house where they have an extra cage for me, one with a particularly jaunty bell I like very much and some braided string and beads I don’t like at all.
It’s not too bad at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, actually. Grandma lets me sit on the arm of her glasses and chew the shiny gold chain she wears around her neck. I love shiny gold chains, and, if you must know, I like Grandma quite a lot as well, enough so that I never peck at the freckles on her neck—even though I want to.
Comfortable as it is at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, I do miss my family. At home I have a large cage with perches made from tree branches the children find in the park. Mother cleans my cage every week and I keep her company while she lines the bottom with fresh paper, pecking her toes and pretending to listen while she talks to me.
The fun begins when Joseph and Liza come home from school. What times we have! We play Monopoly and I move all the houses to the green properties, because, being green myself, it is my favorite color. The paper money tastes very good.
Sometimes Joseph chases me down the front hall, waving his arms and shouting, “You are a BIRRRRRRDIE!!!” I don’t like this game at all, and so, afterwards, just as soon as I have the opportunity, I poop on Joseph’s head.
As I said, usually I don’t mind spending a week with Grandma and Grandpa. But this year was different. This year Grandma had a business trip and I was to be left—alone—with Grandpa.
“But Mom,” cried Joseph when he heard the news, “Grandpa HATES the bird!”
Alas, it is true. Grandpa hates me. He has always hated me, even before I used his ear as a swing toy (his lobes are so long and flappy!). No, Grandpa has hated me since the day I arrived. I can’t imagine why. I assume Grandpa hates me simply because I am the bird—and he is not.
“Oh, Joe,” said Mother, “you know Grandpa’s just kidding when he says all those silly things about Bird. He doesn’t really want to play Birdie in the Microwave or Dive Bomb Birdie or Dig a Hole to China and Send Birdie on a Trip.”
“YES HE DOES!” I wanted to shout. But I did not, because, you see, I am a green cheeked conure and we are not a speaking breed. Oh, maybe an occasional word here or there, but not full sentences like our brother parrots the macaws or the majestic African greys. I suppose I could speak if I really wanted to, but, frankly, I have never had an idea I couldn’t communicate with a flirty cock of the head or a firm presentation of tail feathers.
And so I remained silent when Mother insisted that deep down Grandpa really loved me and would never do me any harm. But Liza, bless her heart, did not.
“Mommy, I think Grandpa really does hate the bird.”
Mother turned to Grandpa. “No,
he doesn’t, Sweetie, right Grandpa? You would never do anything to hurt
Bird because you know how much your grandchildren LOVE Bird, RIGHT GRANDPA?”
Grandpa was silent.
“Nathaniel!” commanded Grandma.
“Of course not,” he said.
But I caught the wicked look in his eye.
As is undoubtedly evident by now, I am no fool. I knew that if I wanted
to make it to the end of the week alive, I would have to avoid upsetting
Grandpa as much as possible. No singing, no playful nips, no jaunty bell.
Instead I would remain quiet in my cage, eating and drinking only when
necessary.
When Grandpa filled my seed cup that first morning I was a model of obedience.
I hung my head a bit, vulture-like, and tried to look pathetic. All morning
long I sat perfectly still, but finally I was too hungry to wait any longer.
I hopped down to my seed cup for a snack.
Scooping a mouthful of seed with my beak, I sat crunching happily, flinging the empty shells onto the hard wood floor. And that’s when I heard it: the “tap-tap-tap” noise the seeds made as they landed and rolled. Such a happy tappy sound: Tap! Tap! Tap! Happy! Happy! Happy! Tap! Tap! Tap! Before I knew it, the cup was empty and the floor was carpeted with tiny round seeds.
Deeply satisfied, I hopped back up to my perch just as Grandpa came into the room. “Look!” I wanted to call out. “Look what I’ve done! You’ll just love it. I emptied the whole cup right onto the floor! See how pretty it looks? Pretty pretty pretty! And such a sound! Oh, I am sorry you didn’t hear it. It was such a happy, happy, hap—”
“BIRRRRD!!!”
Oh dear. Grandpa wasn’t pleased.
“Bird!” Grandpa stomped across the room toward my cage. “What have you done to this flooooo…AHHHHH!”
Evidently the seeds weren’t as happy as they sounded, because there was Grandpa, flat on his back, feet waving in the air. At last Grandpa lay still. I could hear him muttering to himself. This worried me a bit because, as everyone knows, people who talk to themselves are usually crazy.
“Children LOVE the bird…you wouldn’t hurt the bird…Grandpa’s just joking…well, we’ll see who’s joking now, Birdface!!”
Grandpa stood up. His eyes blazed and there was a sunflower seed in his mustache (my favorite kind—delicious!). He marched straight to my cage, swung it off the table, and headed for the second guest bedroom, the small one in the back of the house where no one ever goes.
“Think you’re clever, huh Bird?” said Grandpa. “Let’s see how you like spending the week in here then!” He plopped my cage on the floor and stalked out, slamming the door behind him.
I took in my new surroundings. The guest bed with its blue flowered comforter, the old oak dresser with its pink-shaded table lamp, and—No!
Above the dresser hung a huge oil painting. The artist had managed to capture perfectly the bald patches where the creature’s fur had been eaten away by skin allergies, the familiar brown crust around her eyes, the dripping nose, the mouth that wouldn’t close over her protruding front teeth.
Fluffy.
Fluffy was Grandpa’s cat. Was. Fluffy died a few months ago in a tragic accident involving a falling air conditioner. She had been sitting in the garden directly beneath the bedroom window, eating the heads off all the flowers as she so loved to do, when—well, let’s just say it was a case of wrong time, wrong place.
Grandpa had adored Fluffy. I can only assume it was because deep down in their dark souls, the two of them were so alike. Now I could see that Grandpa had turned this bedroom into a shrine for his beloved pet. There was Fluffy’s food dish, preserved in bronze, complete with fossilized bits of Fluffy’s favorite Smokin’ Salmon Stew in the bottom of the bowl. Fluffy’s portrait was wreathed in fresh catnip, and tucked into the fancy gold frame were little notes from Grandpa: Luv Ya Fluff!, G & F = TLFE, XXXOOO.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Just a picture of Fluffy was enough to set my heart racing, my body shivering in fear, even though I knew she was gone and would never again lunge for me while I perched on Liza’s shoulder, all eleven claws fully extended (Fluffy had an extra thumb). Nor would she ever gnaw on the bars of my cage, panting with murderous determination (if you’ve ever walked past a dead rodent after it’s been sitting in the rain being eaten by maggots for six days, then you’ll know what Fluffy’s breath smelled like).
Well, I’m sorry, but this would never do. Fluffy and I had been sworn enemies when she was alive, and our relationship had only improved slightly now that she was dead. Besides, the room was dark, I couldn’t see out the window, and, as Grandpa well knew, my seed cup was empty. I puffed out my feathers and hunkered down to think things over.
But, really, what was there to think
over? I simply could not stay in that room. I began to screech.
Have you ever heard a parrot screech? Think nails on a blackboard but squeakier.
Think smoke detector but scratchier. I happen to be an excellent screecher
and can do it for hours, indefinitely if necessary. And that day it was
necessary.
I screeched and I screeched and I screeched. I screeched for seed and for sunlight and for Joseph and Liza, and I screeched for the sheer joy of hearing myself screech.
And lo and behold, it worked! Here
was Grandpa ready to make up and be friends—or so I thought.
“Okay, little bird. I hear you. You don’t like being left alone in the
small dark room, do you? And I bet you’re hungry, too.”
Ah, this was more like it! Finally, Grandpa was giving me the love and respect I deserved. He carried my cage into the kitchen, talking all the while about how beautiful I am (true), what a good pet I am (true again) and how very lonely I must feel (so very).
Grandpa put his finger in my cage and I stepped up.
“A bird as magnificent as you must long to spread his lovely wings, to fly away and join all the other beautiful birdies,” said Grandpa.
Did he say fly away? Join the other birdies? Grandpa was walking toward the back door, reaching for the handle…NOW WAIT A MINUTE! THIS WAS WINTER IN MASSACHUSETTS AND I AM A TROPICAL BIRD! I wouldn’t last a minute out there.
I took the only available course of action. Stiff as a board, I flopped over and landed on the floor with a thud.
It’s called Playing Dead and it is my most amusing trick. Joseph and Liza just howl with laughter when I do it. Sometimes we even stage little funerals with a matchbox as a coffin and Liza’s Ninja Turtles as pallbearers. The children pretend to wail and cry until Father comes in and tells them to stop being morbid. But I can see that Mother enjoys it too.
And it worked. I saw Grandpa’s face melt into an expression of terror as he realized what he’d done (or what it looked like he’d done). I could almost hear him thinking to himself, “Oh no, I killed the kids’ bird!”
Out loud he said, “I never meant to hurt you, Bird, I swear it.”
And I thought, “Yeah, right, and I’m a bald eagle.”
Grandpa bent down to inspect me closer and when he reached out his finger to touch me, I bit it. Hard.
“Oowww!” he screamed, shaking his hand and jumping up and down. “Why you nasty little sneaky piece of, of, of garbage,” he seethed. “I’ve had enough of your bites and your screeches and messes. This is it for you, Bird. I’ll take care of you until the kids come home, but just you wait. One day I’ll sneak a few drops of rat poison into that seed you love so much. I’M GOING TO KILL YOU, BIRD.”
Well, this was quite a lot of drama, and all over a silly little nip, which, you must admit, Grandpa deserved. Still, this time I thought I may have gone too far. I would have to take drastic measures.
I shut my eyes and breathed deeply, concentrating hard. At last, I opened my mouth and squawked, “I’m going to kill you, Bird.”
Well, I said I could talk if I really wanted to, didn’t I? For the first time in my life I had a compelling reason to speak.
And Grandpa understood perfectly. He knew that if I repeated “I’m going to kill you, Bird” to Joseph and Liza they would know I had learned it from him, and they would know he had threatened me. So he had to be nice to me or I would get him in big trouble with his grandchildren.
Six days later, the front door burst open and in tumbled Joseph, Liza, Mother, Father, and at least a dozen pieces of luggage.
“We’re home!” the children called out.
“In here,” Grandpa answered.
The children came running into the kitchen where Grandpa sat, reading the newspaper and shelling sunflower seeds for me. I perched on his shoulder, rubbing my head against his mustache for a good scratch.
“Hi, Grandpa,” said Joseph, “how did it go with Bird?”
“Oh, not too bad,” he said, avoiding Joseph’s eyes. “We worked things out in the end, didn’t we, Bird?”
Was I the only one who heard the hint of steel in his voice?
I cocked my head at Grandpa and he fed me a seed. Yes, we had worked things out for now. But I feared it wasn’t the end.