We are all recovering . . . except Pete not so much

16 October 2013

714

R. Linda:

I be embarrassed to even write this story, but write it I shall. It all happened just a few days ago and everyone involved is still dealing with it and trying to move forward. But because it was such an avoidable tragedy, it is something that will stay with us for a long time and hopefully, two of us at the very least, will not repeat or re-live "the" tragedy ever again because we learned from it. That is if they have half a brain they won't repeat it.

I'd like to blame this on underdeveloped brain cells like in me own 7-year-old, but HE knew better and tried to avert the tragedy, yes he did. He made a Herculean effort to save the poor broken-down patient before he became nothing more than . . . than ashes! But I be getting ahead of meself so let me start at the sordid beginning.

It was Monday, and we were all home because of the long holiday. We had as I told you spent a day tooling the back roads of Vermont and New Hampshire in a scenic escape. We were quite a bit content from that and were kicking back. Two of us were playing with Legos, one of us was baking an apple pie and the other one of us (that would be me), was reading the newspaper. Yes, such a nice homey little scene UNTIL there was a pounding (not a gentle knocking) at our door. I got up and opened it as I had lulled meself into a feeling that nothing could go wrong, as all was right with the world. Fool was I. Because at the door was the Weasil with his two hellions in tow.

"Da wife be havin her hair dunie in yer, quaint lil townie," Weasil said shoving the two little monsters inside my door. I wanted to shout "NO," but too late.

I was gobsmacked, there weren't words. Here I thought the Weasil family went back to Steamboat, Colorado to see if their house hadn't slid down the side of the mountain, but no here they were . . . AGAIN!

The eldest little monster was holding a covered cage and this gave me pause because I was sure there was a rat in it. Not one of those pet store white rats, but the kind you see in the sewers of New York City, big, ugly and bad to the rat bone. But I was surprised when young Maximilian looked up at me with those big round blue and innocent-looking eyes, and with a cheery smile of enthusiasm asked me if I wanted to see his new budgie.

I let out a sigh of relief I did and as the cover came off, there it was a lovely blue budgie.

"His namez Pete." The child stated proudly.

Now I know the Weasils well enough to know that anything they name -- well there is a stupid reason, so imagine my surprise when I found out it WAS just plain Pete, not Pete the Keet or anything wild that could go with the name Pete. Just Pete. OK then.

So my two wee boyos were all about the parakeet and wanted to know why and when they were getting one. This, both Tonya and I deflected as best we could. We blamed Mr. Kits mostly for why we won't be getting a bird anytime soon. And it was lovely because Mr. Kits proved himself as to why no bird should ever enter our abode. But more on that later.

While the kiddos, his and mine, were preoccupied with the bird, Weasil and I went into the kitchen because being men, food is our main focus and the smells coming out of that room . . . well nirvana. As it turned out, Tonya was missing a key ingredient for the pie, the top crust. She had used all the flour and needed to run out for some. We both offered to drive her to the general store, but she was already getting into her jacket and on her way out. Weasil stopped her long enough to ask her to pick up Amanda at the hairdresser's on her way back. Yup, he did. Guido decided he didn't want to be in the same house as Coraline, so he asked to go with his Mam.

So here's what happened. Tonya and Guido left. Weas and I were in the kitchen, me brewing a fresh pot of coffee and making sure I had two mugs so he wouldn't be drinking out of the pot (as is his bacterial habit). Meanwhile, in the living room, Max had his hand in the cage and Pete was sitting on his finger. O'Hare asked him if he could try that and get Pete to sit on his finger. Well, because they are boys they both had their hands in the cage at the same time and of course this frightened Pete, and he flew to the top of the cage where he was hanging on while the two sillies tried to free their hands from the cage and each other.

Getting exasperated with "boys" Coraline told them both to sit still, she'd get Pete out of the cage and they could each take turns with the bird on their fingers.

"Howz ya gonner do it?" Max asked, "Pete'll fly away!"

"BOYZ!" Coraline said as she got Pete from his perch (where he had returned once the hands were gone) to step onto her index finger and she closed her middle finger under his feet so he couldn't get away. Then she brought him out to the two arguing boyos fighting over who was to get him first.

But there was one big problem with all this. And that was Mr. Kits had left his perch on the top of the recliner and had joined the kiddos on the floor. They were so into Pete and their arguing that they didn't see the cat dressed in a tuxedo, licking its chops, eyes glistening in its head, thinking that dinner would be fresh and yummy. But Pete was alert and saw the cat first. He started to try to lift off, but because Coraline had him held the way she did, he couldn't fly. He squawked and flapped his wings and the more excited he got, the more interested was that cat until without warning Mr. Kit sprang and to Coraline's surprise she let go of Pete who went airborne, but not familiar with his surroundings and not knowing where to land, flapped his way from the top of the wall to the floor and well . . .

The screaming is what got our attention. We came running in to see everyone in the corner of the room scrambling on top of each other, much like you see when a football is fumbled and everyone flies onto the ball and each other, trying to grab the loose ball, in this case, loose bird. Feathers were everywhere and for a horrific moment I thought Pete was swallowed whole as the first out of the pileup was Mr. Kits and he had blue feathers in his mouth. He ran off quicker than I have ever seen him run, which made me think he had the bird.

But no, the bird was loose under the pile. That was until a hand went up and he was held aloft into the air by Weasil who caught him as he found a way out of the melee.

As the general excitement died down, and O'Hare made sure Mr. Kits was locked in the bedroom, Weasil was getting ready to put Pete in his cage when he noticed the bird's leg looked broken.

"Well, at least it isn't a wing!" Coraline said. "Harder to fix THAT."

"If it were that would be easier than dissy here leggy," Weasil said in disagreement.

Oh, what to do. No vet office is open on Monday. Max was in tears, O'Hare's eyes were welling up but not Coraline's. She went into the kitchen got some match sticks and some tape and was ready to "fix the bird." Oh yeah, she was. I protested, but Weasil said to let her do her "magic" so he and I went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee but once there decided to add whiskey to steady our shattered nerves.

Next thing I know the three kiddos come into the kitchen with Pete. His leg is splinted with the matchstick and taped securely. Not bad I thought that Coraline did a decent job, who'd a thunk it. So everyone started to settle down and sigh with relief, as Coraline put Pete back in his cage, and Weasil promised to get him to the Vet the next day. Naturally, having been through a traumatic episode, Pete was sitting on the bottom of his cage, his little chest heaving, his beady little birdy eyes blinking.

"Jus leave em' be, so he calms down," Coraline said to the two concerned boyos peering in the cage.

"But . . ." O'Hare started to say pointing at Pete, but Coraline told him to hush Pete needed quiet. O'Hare tried one more time and got the same thing, so shrugging his shoulders, he said, "Don't say I didn't try to warn yas."

I poured them milk and offered them Chips Ahoy cookies since the pie wasn't done and we sat there for all of five minutes before it happened. And happened it did. None of us had thought that the bird gravel sheets were really sandpaper. No, we didn't think about that. And because we didn't really notice at first that the match head was still on the matchstick . . . well when Pete took a couple of steps the match head struck the sandpaper and WHOOSH Pete was roast parakeet, or as Mr. Kits would put it, Thanksgiving come early.

Weasil with quick thinking did get the squirt thingie on the sink, turn on the water and douse the cage, but . . . it was too late to save the tail feathers. Yup, we burnt the bird's tail. It was an accident, no one thought about the combination . . . we should have, but well . . . who knew? All that excitement . . .

So Pete is going to be fine. He blinks a LOT and he moves from one end of his perch to the other like he's worried. He hasn't chirped or made a peep since, but I am told he will in time be back to normal.  Maybe not his birdie mind, which seems to be lost, but the rest of him will sort of be ok. The feathers will grow back, maybe not all of them, but his leg because of all the tape was not burnt, so that's one good thing. Of course, when the Vet heard about this "incident" she immediately impounded Pete and is going to find him a better home, with people who aren't so scatterbrained. Yup, that's what she said.

At least I don't have to answer the question from the two kiddos about when are they getting a bird. They know why not now. Uh-huh. But let this be a lesson to you if you have a bird, if you get the bright idea to use a matchstick as a splint, please cut the match head off, because as soon as it rubs against the sandpaper there could be a terrible accident. Just sayin'.

Gabe
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