Flight to Freedom
Miss Mae
August 21, 2006
The newspaper ad read, “Easy to tame. Teach them to talk." That was my first consideration of acquiring a parakeet for a pet. My neighbor across the street had one. It sat in its cage, twittered once in a while, and was colorful to watch. I decided that was enough positives. Next day I traveled to the five-and-ten and purchased my first parakeet.
I decided this blue bird, perched silently in a corner of his cage and staring at me, would be named Skipper. No special reason, I just thought it’d make a nice bird name.
Over the next three weeks I watched Skipper. He was handsome with a cobalt blue chest, zebra striped wing feathers, purple smudges at his cheeks, and a little polka-dot necklace. His cere, or nostrils, gradually changed from baby pink to beautiful sea blue.
Relaxing in his surroundings, he became vocal. I was disappointed he didn’t sing like a canary. Instead, he emitted annoying shrills. Most times these settled down into happy, playful ‘clicks’ as he entertained himself in front of his mirror, or tossed his plastic ball around his cage.
The day came when we opened his door. He shot out like...well, like he’d been released from a cage. Circling around the room, he bumped into walls, his flight level dropping as he tired. After a minute, he landed on the tallest object–my six-foot husband. From that day onward, Skipper was permitted freedom. He learned the rooms’ locations and he had favorite perches. Mostly, he sat atop the curtain rods, bobbing his head up and down as he chatted a one-way conversation with himself.
After nine months, Skipper spoke. The first sound I recognized amidst all the other bird chatter was kissing. This was because I often kissed him. When he sat on my finger, I would kiss his little chest or his beak. So he’d picked up on my affection. Gradually, his vocabulary expanded into about fifty words and small phrases.
He rode my husband’s shoulder frequently. Once, accustomed to the little bird’s presence to the point of distraction, he paid no attention and walked straight out the back door. In an instant, Skipper flew off. My husband, running back inside, reported the alarming news. Together with our daughter, we three raced out to the back yard, calling Skipper’s name.
We heard his chirps. High atop a thirty-foot cedar tree sat Skipper, his blue chest spotlighting his location. We called and coaxed, but he sat still, muttering quite happily to himself. Then a blue jay flew to his branch. I held my breath, worried the jay might attack this odd foreigner. We never knew if it crossed Skipper’s mind, but suddenly, he leaned down to the branch underneath him. Slowly, a branch at a time, he descended. Then he flew from the tree and landed on my daughter’s hand, who promptly stuck him inside his waiting cage. As I shut his door–and locked it with a plastic twist tie–Skipper hopped to his mirror, kissed his reflection, and laughed.
I decided this blue bird, perched silently in a corner of his cage and staring at me, would be named Skipper. No special reason, I just thought it’d make a nice bird name.
Over the next three weeks I watched Skipper. He was handsome with a cobalt blue chest, zebra striped wing feathers, purple smudges at his cheeks, and a little polka-dot necklace. His cere, or nostrils, gradually changed from baby pink to beautiful sea blue.
Relaxing in his surroundings, he became vocal. I was disappointed he didn’t sing like a canary. Instead, he emitted annoying shrills. Most times these settled down into happy, playful ‘clicks’ as he entertained himself in front of his mirror, or tossed his plastic ball around his cage.
The day came when we opened his door. He shot out like...well, like he’d been released from a cage. Circling around the room, he bumped into walls, his flight level dropping as he tired. After a minute, he landed on the tallest object–my six-foot husband. From that day onward, Skipper was permitted freedom. He learned the rooms’ locations and he had favorite perches. Mostly, he sat atop the curtain rods, bobbing his head up and down as he chatted a one-way conversation with himself.
After nine months, Skipper spoke. The first sound I recognized amidst all the other bird chatter was kissing. This was because I often kissed him. When he sat on my finger, I would kiss his little chest or his beak. So he’d picked up on my affection. Gradually, his vocabulary expanded into about fifty words and small phrases.
He rode my husband’s shoulder frequently. Once, accustomed to the little bird’s presence to the point of distraction, he paid no attention and walked straight out the back door. In an instant, Skipper flew off. My husband, running back inside, reported the alarming news. Together with our daughter, we three raced out to the back yard, calling Skipper’s name.
We heard his chirps. High atop a thirty-foot cedar tree sat Skipper, his blue chest spotlighting his location. We called and coaxed, but he sat still, muttering quite happily to himself. Then a blue jay flew to his branch. I held my breath, worried the jay might attack this odd foreigner. We never knew if it crossed Skipper’s mind, but suddenly, he leaned down to the branch underneath him. Slowly, a branch at a time, he descended. Then he flew from the tree and landed on my daughter’s hand, who promptly stuck him inside his waiting cage. As I shut his door–and locked it with a plastic twist tie–Skipper hopped to his mirror, kissed his reflection, and laughed.
Print
Email
