Every sunny morning I wake up to the beautiful screeching of my little parakeet. She was given to me as a birthday gift. She used to have a friend with her in the cage, but he met with early demise. I have my suspicions that it was a homicide, but I lack proof of her misdeed.
She is clearly depressed. Melancholy at least. Sometimes I catch her looking sadly at herself in her little mirror and I wonder what she sees. Does she see bird failure? An ugly malformed beak? Or does she see what I see? A gorgeously trim and athletic bird vixen.
She has been through falls and attempted escapes. She once hid under our oven for three hours, patiently waiting for us to forget about her. But we didn't. Her cage has been thrown across the room and dumped on the floor. Yet still she sings. Why cruel fate? Why did you deliver this wonderful little bird into the hands of our family? She deserves so much more than grubby little hands trying to open her cage and small babies tipping her home over.
For now, I have given her a new home. One very high up. The last time her perch was so high it resulted in a Mt. Everest like climb for an 18-month-old, but I believe he is ready to let go and just look at her without attempting a dangerous climb in the hopes of spilling her cage. And I am ready for the old bird to have some peace.
She sings still. And again wakes me at 6:30 am. Live on blue bird, live on.
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