Something About a Bird

Erin’s bird is dead.  I do not mourn.  Hate me now.

Her story was heartfelt.  For some.  She had this bird—who knows what kind it was other than a squawker—for twenty-five years.  All of a sudden, she noticed it wasn’t quite itself.  How could she tell?

Being a responsible pet owner, obviously with money to spare, Erin took the bird to the vet.  Isn’t there such a thing as just wringing its neck?  Do vets not charge more than human doctors?  Is there a Medicare plan for an old bird?

Anyway, the vet diagnosis: testicular cancer.  Have you ever seen a penis on a bird?  I haven’t.  The vet suggested she operate.  The alternative was medicine.  Erin wisely chose medicine.

Then further test results came back.  The bird had high cholesterol.  Others in our group of friends sighed sympathetically.  I wasn’t one of them.  Erin gave medicine in the bird’s feed for this decidedly human problem.  But if it had high cholesterol, wasn’t that from the food?

More tests came back.  The birds organ’s were failing.  Erin thought—maybe it’s time.  So she gathered her family together, her two adult children and their grandchildren and had a meeting where they all decided what to do.  The result was they’d mourn the loss of this very special feathered friend, who had traveled with them along their lives’ path for twenty five years.

One dead bird, one memorial service coming up, for a bird that had enriched Erin’s family’s lives and also enriched the vet.

As Erin related this whole tragic series of events to us, I tried to contain my hysterics—laughter—while others of our group expressed such a deep feeling of empathy I had to wonder—are they joking?  But, oh no.  It seemed that every single person came up with their own bird story.  Videos and photos followed.  I’m sitting there wondering, who are these people?  Wasn’t admiring their children and grandchildren more than enough?  Well, this is the price of friendship and why some people become hermits.

I didn’t share my bird story because I had already damned myself by my inappropriate response to Erin’s tragedy.  But I have one.  My Aunt Rosalyn had a bird.  It was a disgusting little creature in a gilded cage.  All I recall of that bird was its crap.  My aunt had to change the lining of the cage several times a day because the bird was a singer and a crapper.

Now, I love birds, except the ones who shit on my windshield.  But I love them where they belong.  Outside.  Many of my favorite vacations were birding trips, where one could wallow in nature and not do anything too strenuous.  I have a bird feeder hanging from my oak tree.  I take my binoculars with me when I walk, in case I spot something besides robins and redwing blackbirds.  What I do not do is wonder if any of those birds is suffering from testicular cancer.

Erin collects rubber duckies.  Let’s hope those are the birds she sticks with from now on.  It’ll save on the vet bills and the emotional trauma.  Gee, I wonder if I’ll be invited back to her house any time soon?