Bob

Batz

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October 29, 2007

Who Thought I Would Want a Pet Parakeet?

Something’s wrong with the parakeet I recently received as a gift. The little bird is still alive.

It’s the first parakeet I’ve ever owned. The guy who gave it to me put the bird in a cardboard  box with air holes punched in the top and when it came time for me to open my gifts, he handed it to me.

When I popped open the box, the bird almost flew up my nose.

After three hours of chasing the parakeet around the house, I finally caught it and returned it to the box.

Later, the guy who gave me my new-found little feathered gift brought over a cage filled with bird toys, including two trapezes, a water dish, a wee little mirror and enough bird seed or whatever it is to feed the bird for the rest of its life.

Today, two months after receiving the parakeet, I know one thing for sure. I don’t especially like parakeets.

Lots of people have pet birds, but that doesn’t mean I want a pet bird. A lot of people rob banks, too, and roll naked in snow banks after taking sauna baths, but that doesn’t mean it’s fun.

Parakeets are different from dogs and cats. Even though a bird is your pet, I don’t think the bird realizes it’s your pet. Or, if the bird does realize it, it sure doesn’t appear to give a hoot whether it’s your pet or not.

After I acquired my first parakeet, a friend told me I should name it.

In my 67 years on this wildly spinning orb we call home, I’ve had plenty of dogs and cats.

Dogs and cats are easy to name. You just pick a name like Spot or Fluffy or Wags or Kitty Kitty and it’s done. It’s much more difficult, however, to name a parakeet.

And even after you have named the bird, it doesn’t seem to care.

If you have a dog, it doesn’t take long for that dog to learn its name and come to you when you call it. But, if you have a parakeet and call it by name by yelling, “Here Tweety or Chuck or Cuddles”, it totally ignores you.

I named the bird Frisky, but no matter how many times I peer into the cage and say “Hi, there, Frisky” or “How ya doing, Frisky?” the bird acts like I don’t even exist.

Much of my information about owning a parakeet came from my wife Sally, whose grandmother owned one of the birds when Sally was a kid.

Her grandmother named the bird Dickie and, according to Sally, Dickie was one smart bird.

He could whistle the “Warsaw Concerto” and say 45 words, including 38 that had four letters and weren’t especially good for little kids, or church-going adults, to hear.

When Dickie was 10 years old someone left his cage open one day and the last time anyone saw the parakeet he was flying away above the treetops in Flint, Michigan.

One evening shortly, after I took ownership of Frisky, I told Sally, “I wish this bird was more like your grandmother’s bird, Dickie.”

“Do you mean you wish he could sing the ‘Warsaw Concerto’ and say 45 words?” she asked.

“No,” I replied, “I wish he’d fly away above the treetops and disappear.”

Sally didn’t talk to me for a week.

© 2007 North Star Writers Group. May not be republished without permission.

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