I thought she would live to be 70 years old. That's what I'd heard that parrots do. When the vet told me she was nearing the end of her lifespan at age 29, I couldn't believe it. I wasn't prepared.
Decibel the parrot died of atherosclerosis on Black Friday. She had had a heart attack two weeks earlier, and I rushed her to the vet. That's how I got the diagnosis. She was given an X-ray that showed fatty buildup in her heart. I got her a prescription of blood thinner, and she was taking it very well twice a day, but it wasn't enough to prolong her existence in the apparent world.
Well, she didn't fly, and she did love her sunflower seeds and snack cakes. Just like a human.
When Decibel was young, my grandfather was alive, and my children weren't born. She came to me as a partly-feathered chick and lived with me all her life. I loved her, but I grew to understand that she was a wild animal forced into an unnatural state of living that was not even remotely close to what she should have had or what she might have been. It's great that she could call for my daughter, say my name, chuckle, cry, sing off key ... but what she couldn't do was soar above the rain forest with her own kind, mate, raise her family, and get all the exercise and proper food her little body required.
Life will be so odd now.
It's not like my whole day revolved around Decibel -- far, far from it -- but she was always in my mind, in my reality, part of the daily routine. She was an antagonist, a source of laughter, an obligation, a friend, a needy child. With all of that removed suddenly, there's quite a void. My mind still expects her to be there. I'm sure it will be that way for awhile.
I buried Decibel the parrot with the poppet Mrs. B made for her, under a young oak tree near the infamous Snobville Pond. There's a bench where I can sit and see her well-hidden resting place (didn't want the resident night critters to dig her up).
I'm still in the close-to-tears phase of mourning. I'm racked with guilt that I didn't spend more time with her ... although I did in these ending years.
I owe an apology to Decibel and to Gaia. Goddess, I was young. I didn't know this "pet" should be a wildling. Forgive me.
Decibel, you did good with what you were given. You did real good, ol' girl. May you have found a Summerland that is 100 percent rain forest, 100 percent of the time.
Showing posts with label decibel the parrot. Show all posts
Showing posts with label decibel the parrot. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 01, 2015
Friday, January 09, 2015
Tough Day in the Trenches for Decibel and Gamma
It's hard out there for a pet. We Northern Hemisphere humans struggle with seasonal lack of sunlight. Couldn't our pets feel the same?
I stayed home from work today because I feel crappy and worn out. But it's a good thing I asked for a substitute teacher on Thursday, because today I had to take Decibel the parrot to the vet.
Two years ago, Decibel had a disagreement with a squirrel on the small matter of ownership of the seed in Decibel's cage. Both parrot and squirrel emerged with injuries. Decibel injured her wing and needed $2000 + in vet care to shore her up.
So the other night when I saw blood on the floor beside Decibel's cage (and no cats with feathers in their mouths), I called the vet promptly. We got an appointment the next day.
It's a balmy 28 degrees out there with a stiff wind and some snow flurries. Just the day for a tropical bird to take an outing! Bundle up, Decibel!
When Decibel was a chick, she was real cool with standing on my hand and riding around on my shoulder. Then along came The Heir, and Decibel probably hit maturity, and Decibel started biting like a fiend. Just the other night she got me on the thumb, and OOOO WEEE! Felt like I'd shoved my digit in a hornets' nest.
To get Decibel into a pet carrier requires grabbing her with a bath towel. When she sees the towel coming, she knows what's about to happen and reacts accordingly. It's a merry chase sometimes, with much shredding of fabric and any unlucky fingers that peek out. Today was no different, except the destination wasn't the bathtub where she's showered. It was the vet.
Decibel's vet loves her to death. It's sickening. "Kissy kissy, birdy birdy, oh, LOOK at you Decibel! You look so GOOD! How's my sweetie?"
No chance of alienation of affection, though, because while the vet is cooing like a turtledove, she's also checking out Decibel's old injuries. This process elicits crabby, loud squawks from birdy birdy.
Long story short, Decibel's okay. She's got some anti-inflammatory medicine for good measure. She's back in her sunny spot, nursing her wounded pride and her sore wing.
Having returned Decibel to home and hearth, I turned my attention to the Xmas tree, which looked like it had spent the season out in some harsh desert, rather than my living room. Next year will be my last and final Xmas tree. These Jersey trees are cut before Halloween and shipped across the country, and they're dry as bones when we set them up.
Anyway, it's not terribly taxing to remove ornaments and lights, remove the tree from the stand, and place it at the curb for mulching by the borough of Snobville. Nor is it much of a chore to sweep up the ten pounds of needles shed in the process of removal.
But you'd have thought I was committing a cardinal sin.
My indoor cat, Gamma, had bonded with this tree. He saw this dry, prickly piece of foliage as his own personal forest. Shed needles be damned, Gamma had staked out a space in the corner behind the tree, from which he imagined the life of a rugged outdoors cat.
Gamma watched intently as I took the ornaments and lights off the tree. Then he stood in shocked disbelief as I dragged his forest out the front door. Then he paced the open space where the tree had been, batting petulantly at the snowdrift of fallen needles.
Finally, with one last piercing glance, he turned his back on me and gave in to his sorrows.
I've never owned a cat that didn't go outside. But I got Gamma from a shelter. He had always been an indoor cat, and frankly, he's a ten-pound sniveling wretch, afraid of his own shadow. The one time he did get out, he hid under broken glass, cowed to silence by the threats of the local outdoor feline community.
All in all, the only happy pet here at Chateau Johnson today is Beta, and judging by the way she's walking, her old arthritic joints aren't feeling up to snuff either.
It's hard out there for a pet.
I stayed home from work today because I feel crappy and worn out. But it's a good thing I asked for a substitute teacher on Thursday, because today I had to take Decibel the parrot to the vet.
Two years ago, Decibel had a disagreement with a squirrel on the small matter of ownership of the seed in Decibel's cage. Both parrot and squirrel emerged with injuries. Decibel injured her wing and needed $2000 + in vet care to shore her up.
So the other night when I saw blood on the floor beside Decibel's cage (and no cats with feathers in their mouths), I called the vet promptly. We got an appointment the next day.
It's a balmy 28 degrees out there with a stiff wind and some snow flurries. Just the day for a tropical bird to take an outing! Bundle up, Decibel!
When Decibel was a chick, she was real cool with standing on my hand and riding around on my shoulder. Then along came The Heir, and Decibel probably hit maturity, and Decibel started biting like a fiend. Just the other night she got me on the thumb, and OOOO WEEE! Felt like I'd shoved my digit in a hornets' nest.
To get Decibel into a pet carrier requires grabbing her with a bath towel. When she sees the towel coming, she knows what's about to happen and reacts accordingly. It's a merry chase sometimes, with much shredding of fabric and any unlucky fingers that peek out. Today was no different, except the destination wasn't the bathtub where she's showered. It was the vet.
Decibel's vet loves her to death. It's sickening. "Kissy kissy, birdy birdy, oh, LOOK at you Decibel! You look so GOOD! How's my sweetie?"
No chance of alienation of affection, though, because while the vet is cooing like a turtledove, she's also checking out Decibel's old injuries. This process elicits crabby, loud squawks from birdy birdy.
Long story short, Decibel's okay. She's got some anti-inflammatory medicine for good measure. She's back in her sunny spot, nursing her wounded pride and her sore wing.
Having returned Decibel to home and hearth, I turned my attention to the Xmas tree, which looked like it had spent the season out in some harsh desert, rather than my living room. Next year will be my last and final Xmas tree. These Jersey trees are cut before Halloween and shipped across the country, and they're dry as bones when we set them up.
Anyway, it's not terribly taxing to remove ornaments and lights, remove the tree from the stand, and place it at the curb for mulching by the borough of Snobville. Nor is it much of a chore to sweep up the ten pounds of needles shed in the process of removal.
But you'd have thought I was committing a cardinal sin.
My indoor cat, Gamma, had bonded with this tree. He saw this dry, prickly piece of foliage as his own personal forest. Shed needles be damned, Gamma had staked out a space in the corner behind the tree, from which he imagined the life of a rugged outdoors cat.
Finally, with one last piercing glance, he turned his back on me and gave in to his sorrows.
I've never owned a cat that didn't go outside. But I got Gamma from a shelter. He had always been an indoor cat, and frankly, he's a ten-pound sniveling wretch, afraid of his own shadow. The one time he did get out, he hid under broken glass, cowed to silence by the threats of the local outdoor feline community.
All in all, the only happy pet here at Chateau Johnson today is Beta, and judging by the way she's walking, her old arthritic joints aren't feeling up to snuff either.
It's hard out there for a pet.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
The Double Secret Cone of Shame
Decibel and her poppet and I went to the vet this afternoon. It seemed the wily parrot, having nothing else to do for extended hours of the day and night, had figured out how to circumvent the Cone of Shame.
This was of concern, because Decibel's wing is healing. The poppet is holding up its share of the bargain.
The only option was to wrap Decibel in an even bigger cone. Poor thing! And on her birthday too! What a way to turn 25, huh?
I'll post a photo of the new, double-secret probation Cone of Shame when I have a pulse. In addition to everything else, I'm coming down with the flu.
This is a good place to deliver a strongly-worded sermon:
Do not purchase a caged bird. They are not domesticated. They need far more stimulation than they get sitting in a cage all day, and after they bond with you they will want no other owner. Which is a life sentence of wild animal care. Including biting and screaming loud enough to set off the smoke detector.
If you want a nice bird pet, put up an outdoor feeder. Then you will have lots of happy chickadees and no neurosis.
I love Decibel, but I feel awfully sorry for her.
This was of concern, because Decibel's wing is healing. The poppet is holding up its share of the bargain.
The only option was to wrap Decibel in an even bigger cone. Poor thing! And on her birthday too! What a way to turn 25, huh?
I'll post a photo of the new, double-secret probation Cone of Shame when I have a pulse. In addition to everything else, I'm coming down with the flu.
This is a good place to deliver a strongly-worded sermon:
Do not purchase a caged bird. They are not domesticated. They need far more stimulation than they get sitting in a cage all day, and after they bond with you they will want no other owner. Which is a life sentence of wild animal care. Including biting and screaming loud enough to set off the smoke detector.
If you want a nice bird pet, put up an outdoor feeder. Then you will have lots of happy chickadees and no neurosis.
I love Decibel, but I feel awfully sorry for her.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Neil Young, Stoner Astronaut
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I have a terrific, nostalgic sermon for you today, but we have to do the opening rituals and stuff first.
1. I would like the faeries to give back the thick envelope of photographs I set aside to have scanned. The best of the best. Gone. Only in Chateau Johnson can this happen.
I'm trying not to get worked up. But certain faeries had better hand over the pics, or they will not go to Spoutwood next May Day.
2. What a busy time this has been! On August 23, my beloved daughter The Spare headed off to college. The Spare! The Spare! What will my life be without the Spare making me laugh all the time! And her big dinner parties. And her Doctor Who parties. And her Harry Potter parties. And her 4th of July get-togethers. And her Christmas dinner soirees. I think we counted: She had eight parties last year with at least 10 guests. Seems like some of the life has been sucked out of the house.
Spare didn't choose just any college. She is attending the University of the Arts in Philadelphia. This expensive institution is not on the edge of the city. It's not in a quiet city neighborhood. It is right square on the freakin downtown streets, Center City, wedged in between skyscrapers and the Kimmel Center and the big theaters. You can see Billy Penn on top of City Hall, about six blocks away. Granted, Philly isn't New York, but at that particular spot it sure feels like it. To each her own, but I sure couldn't live amidst all that bustle. Spare! Spare! Never forget your Appalachian bloodline!
3. On we go to our pathetic patient, Decibel the parrot. Decibel hurt her wing awhile back, and the bills are mounting. We brought her home from the hospital last Monday, and within days she had torn her wound open again. Back we went to the vet for another $100 appointment, and now the poor feathered fool is wearing a bird collar.
The vet covered Decibel's collar with a few layers of surgical tape. Needless to say, Deci is hard at work trying to chew through the tape, and making good progress. Mr. J and I have to hand-feed her. But at least the collar is making her more docile. It's easier to give her the two kinds of expensive medicine she has to have twice a day. All of this so she doesn't peck on her injured wing -- so I have no idea how long she'll be in the collar. Seems like it's going to be awhile.
Now for the sermon: Mr. J just told me that NBC News.com reported the death of Neil Young, the first astronaut to walk on the moon! Is it any wonder you're reading this blog and not an online news source? As much as I mourn the loss of the real Neil, I just can't help but have some fun with this.
How old were you when the first man walked on the Moon? Were you even born? I was a ten-year-old who was just captivated by space travel. Among my earliest memories lie visions of the space flights dating back into the early 1960s.
So it was that my whole family had gathered to watch the lunar touch down, which (if I recall) was in the late afternoon, during a thunderstorm. (Some local preachers later sermonized that the storm was proof of God's wrath about the whole Apollo mission.)
My mother and father couldn't understand why Neil Young had been chosen to be the first man to walk on the Moon. After all, he was a stoner hippie freak with a whiny voice who dared to insult fine Southern folks. But there he was, humming "Cinnamon Girl" as he plunked down the Canadian flag next to the lunar module. Neil even complained to Houston that he needed to be back in time for a big rock concert in New York on some guy's dairy farm.
My family thought it would have been better to find someone who was really committed to space travel, rather than a rock star with other pressing commitments. But who were we to question our government's crucial decisions? We loved Richard Nixon, leader of the Free World.
A few of my friends thought Jimi Hendrix should have been the first astronaut to come out of the hatch and walk on the moon. Jimi was at least an American. And why did they leave Janis in orbit? Those were different times, I guess.
A few days later, Neil touched down and got back to his day job. He often said that his days as an Apollo astronaut were a defining moment in his creative life.
Rest in peace, Neil Young, ground-breaking astronaut. Egg on face, NBC.com.
1. I would like the faeries to give back the thick envelope of photographs I set aside to have scanned. The best of the best. Gone. Only in Chateau Johnson can this happen.
I'm trying not to get worked up. But certain faeries had better hand over the pics, or they will not go to Spoutwood next May Day.
2. What a busy time this has been! On August 23, my beloved daughter The Spare headed off to college. The Spare! The Spare! What will my life be without the Spare making me laugh all the time! And her big dinner parties. And her Doctor Who parties. And her Harry Potter parties. And her 4th of July get-togethers. And her Christmas dinner soirees. I think we counted: She had eight parties last year with at least 10 guests. Seems like some of the life has been sucked out of the house.
Spare didn't choose just any college. She is attending the University of the Arts in Philadelphia. This expensive institution is not on the edge of the city. It's not in a quiet city neighborhood. It is right square on the freakin downtown streets, Center City, wedged in between skyscrapers and the Kimmel Center and the big theaters. You can see Billy Penn on top of City Hall, about six blocks away. Granted, Philly isn't New York, but at that particular spot it sure feels like it. To each her own, but I sure couldn't live amidst all that bustle. Spare! Spare! Never forget your Appalachian bloodline!
3. On we go to our pathetic patient, Decibel the parrot. Decibel hurt her wing awhile back, and the bills are mounting. We brought her home from the hospital last Monday, and within days she had torn her wound open again. Back we went to the vet for another $100 appointment, and now the poor feathered fool is wearing a bird collar.
The vet covered Decibel's collar with a few layers of surgical tape. Needless to say, Deci is hard at work trying to chew through the tape, and making good progress. Mr. J and I have to hand-feed her. But at least the collar is making her more docile. It's easier to give her the two kinds of expensive medicine she has to have twice a day. All of this so she doesn't peck on her injured wing -- so I have no idea how long she'll be in the collar. Seems like it's going to be awhile.
Now for the sermon: Mr. J just told me that NBC News.com reported the death of Neil Young, the first astronaut to walk on the moon! Is it any wonder you're reading this blog and not an online news source? As much as I mourn the loss of the real Neil, I just can't help but have some fun with this.
How old were you when the first man walked on the Moon? Were you even born? I was a ten-year-old who was just captivated by space travel. Among my earliest memories lie visions of the space flights dating back into the early 1960s.
So it was that my whole family had gathered to watch the lunar touch down, which (if I recall) was in the late afternoon, during a thunderstorm. (Some local preachers later sermonized that the storm was proof of God's wrath about the whole Apollo mission.)
My mother and father couldn't understand why Neil Young had been chosen to be the first man to walk on the Moon. After all, he was a stoner hippie freak with a whiny voice who dared to insult fine Southern folks. But there he was, humming "Cinnamon Girl" as he plunked down the Canadian flag next to the lunar module. Neil even complained to Houston that he needed to be back in time for a big rock concert in New York on some guy's dairy farm.
My family thought it would have been better to find someone who was really committed to space travel, rather than a rock star with other pressing commitments. But who were we to question our government's crucial decisions? We loved Richard Nixon, leader of the Free World.
A few of my friends thought Jimi Hendrix should have been the first astronaut to come out of the hatch and walk on the moon. Jimi was at least an American. And why did they leave Janis in orbit? Those were different times, I guess.
A few days later, Neil touched down and got back to his day job. He often said that his days as an Apollo astronaut were a defining moment in his creative life.
Rest in peace, Neil Young, ground-breaking astronaut. Egg on face, NBC.com.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Gods Are Bored Update
Well, beyond all the expectations of myself, the Bored Gods have returned Decibel the Parrot to me, greatly improved and well on the way to health again! I'm sure there is some venerable deity of the South American rain forest to whom I owe a debt of gratitude. As for the debt to the vet? Oh, snap. Don't even ask. Okay, I'll tell you: four figures. Could have had 20 budgies and 20 cages and 20 sacks of budgie food for what Mr. J shelled out. A big, bright "Gods Are Bored" thanks to all who contributed to the Decibel Fund, and it is still open, should you feel inclined.
On Saturday Mr. J and I went to the Central New Jersey Pagan Pride Day, and I got to meet Mrs. B, she of the famous "Confessions of a Pagan Soccer Mom" blog (link in my sidebar). What a lovely lady! She gave a presentation on poppets that was very interesting ... I asked her to make one for Decibel.
My current Druid Grove was well-represented there too. The park where the event was held could not possibly be an easy commute for any of them (took me over an hour). If there are evangelists for Druidry, these folks are the ones. Heck, we may be knocking on your door some Saturday morning, all dressed in Celtic knot tie-dye!
That's all the news I have time to share, except for this: I've lost 20 pounds this summer. It was a rigorous diet that I do not recommend in any way, shape, or form, but it's nice to have my girlish figure back.
Oh yeah. I almost forgot! I also learned Stanza 52 of "Song of Myself," by Walt Whitman:
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me
He complains of my gab and my loitering
I too am not a bit tame; I too am untranslatable
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me
It flings my likeness after the rest, and good and true as any on the shadowed wilds
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air; I shake my white locks at the runaway sun
I effuse my flesh in eddies and drift it in lacy jags
I bequeath myself to the dirt, to grow from the grass I love
If you want me again, look under your boot-soles
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged
Missing me one place search another
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
The last few lines need a little touching up, but go ahead and try to get this one by heart. The "shadowed wilds" line took me a whole week. If you see any omissions, tell me ASAP, because school starts in two weeks.
On Saturday Mr. J and I went to the Central New Jersey Pagan Pride Day, and I got to meet Mrs. B, she of the famous "Confessions of a Pagan Soccer Mom" blog (link in my sidebar). What a lovely lady! She gave a presentation on poppets that was very interesting ... I asked her to make one for Decibel.
My current Druid Grove was well-represented there too. The park where the event was held could not possibly be an easy commute for any of them (took me over an hour). If there are evangelists for Druidry, these folks are the ones. Heck, we may be knocking on your door some Saturday morning, all dressed in Celtic knot tie-dye!
That's all the news I have time to share, except for this: I've lost 20 pounds this summer. It was a rigorous diet that I do not recommend in any way, shape, or form, but it's nice to have my girlish figure back.
Oh yeah. I almost forgot! I also learned Stanza 52 of "Song of Myself," by Walt Whitman:
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me
He complains of my gab and my loitering
I too am not a bit tame; I too am untranslatable
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me
It flings my likeness after the rest, and good and true as any on the shadowed wilds
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air; I shake my white locks at the runaway sun
I effuse my flesh in eddies and drift it in lacy jags
I bequeath myself to the dirt, to grow from the grass I love
If you want me again, look under your boot-soles
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged
Missing me one place search another
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
The last few lines need a little touching up, but go ahead and try to get this one by heart. The "shadowed wilds" line took me a whole week. If you see any omissions, tell me ASAP, because school starts in two weeks.
Tuesday, August 07, 2012
Decibel Makes Up for Lost Time
This will have to be quick, because I have a doctor's appointment shortly.
Decibel the parrot hurt her wing a few weeks ago. I suspect it was a run-in with a squirrel, as my cats are justifiably afraid of Decibel.
Parrots are very stoic, so it wasn't until this morning, when she was practically falling off the perch, that I decided she needed a trip to the vet.
Part of the reason I held off on the vet trip is because, as generous as Governor Chris Christie is with my state health care (not), he draws the line at caged birds. Meanwhile, Spare starts college in two weeks.
Decibel is now in the hospital receiving multiple levels of care. She will live to earn her name. The bill is astronomical.
I decided not to turn Decibel over for adoption (meaning that someone else would foot the bill for her recovery) because the doggone bird has been with me since chickhood and is totally bonded to me. What's the use of her living if she's looking for me every day in someone else's house?
The vet assured me that Decibel can be completely cured. So, there you have it.
Over the years, Decibel has been a very cheap pet. All I had to do was buy bird food, which I supplemented with stuff from our table and the occasional treat. A lot less overhead than a cat. Decibel has been living in the same cage since 1990. It's getting a bit harder to dismantle for cleaning but is otherwise functional.
Alas, all pets come with a price tag. Time to ante up for Decibel.
Decibel the parrot hurt her wing a few weeks ago. I suspect it was a run-in with a squirrel, as my cats are justifiably afraid of Decibel.
Parrots are very stoic, so it wasn't until this morning, when she was practically falling off the perch, that I decided she needed a trip to the vet.
Part of the reason I held off on the vet trip is because, as generous as Governor Chris Christie is with my state health care (not), he draws the line at caged birds. Meanwhile, Spare starts college in two weeks.
Decibel is now in the hospital receiving multiple levels of care. She will live to earn her name. The bill is astronomical.
I decided not to turn Decibel over for adoption (meaning that someone else would foot the bill for her recovery) because the doggone bird has been with me since chickhood and is totally bonded to me. What's the use of her living if she's looking for me every day in someone else's house?
The vet assured me that Decibel can be completely cured. So, there you have it.
Over the years, Decibel has been a very cheap pet. All I had to do was buy bird food, which I supplemented with stuff from our table and the occasional treat. A lot less overhead than a cat. Decibel has been living in the same cage since 1990. It's getting a bit harder to dismantle for cleaning but is otherwise functional.
Alas, all pets come with a price tag. Time to ante up for Decibel.
Thursday, February 09, 2012
Decibel Sings
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," praise and worship suggestions for No Child Left Behind! New Jersey has been released from NCLB ... I know not why. Since I get most of my classroom's books from NCLB (and since the vast majority of my students pass the demanding high school proficiency test), I'm not sure I'm happy about this. But anything that takes some heat off teachers should be warmly welcomed.
Teaching has been very hard on me. Sadly, it has been harder on Decibel the Parrot.
When I worked at home, I used to be around Decibel all day. Now there are days when I uncover Decibel's cage in the dark of the morning and don't return to her side until bedtime. She is alone, all alone, all day.
Matters have been worse since my desktop computer suffocated (under the weight of parrot dander). Now there's no reason to go into my home office at all, and that's where Decibel has located for the winter months. Her name is Decibel for a reason. She can be heard two blocks away when she gets heated up -- which is frequently.
Lately, when I have found a moment to grade papers or blog on my netbook alongside Decibel, we have been singing to each other. I sing. She mimics. It's adorable.
But I think it should be a swan song.
Unless I get a reprieve from my school teaching, Decibel will be doomed to near-solitary confinement for the next ten years. I wouldn't wish this on an enemy, let alone a poor little parrot.
I am seriously considering putting Decibel up for adoption at the local bird store. She would be "consignment," but I wouldn't want any money for her -- only a home where she could split the eardrums of her family and be around some hustle and bustle.
Decibel is very attached to met, but I am getting older, and she is still young. She bites, but I think that the right owner could get her back into pirate mode.
Just another cheerful thing for me to contemplate at this juncture in my life. When people speak of "empty nest syndrome," they don't usually think about pet birds. I'm thinking about it. For all her love of me, her vocabulary and occasional tunes, Decibel isn't living with the stimulus a parrot needs. It's hard to know what to do. She can speak, but she can't speak her mind.
Teaching has been very hard on me. Sadly, it has been harder on Decibel the Parrot.
When I worked at home, I used to be around Decibel all day. Now there are days when I uncover Decibel's cage in the dark of the morning and don't return to her side until bedtime. She is alone, all alone, all day.
Matters have been worse since my desktop computer suffocated (under the weight of parrot dander). Now there's no reason to go into my home office at all, and that's where Decibel has located for the winter months. Her name is Decibel for a reason. She can be heard two blocks away when she gets heated up -- which is frequently.
Lately, when I have found a moment to grade papers or blog on my netbook alongside Decibel, we have been singing to each other. I sing. She mimics. It's adorable.
But I think it should be a swan song.
Unless I get a reprieve from my school teaching, Decibel will be doomed to near-solitary confinement for the next ten years. I wouldn't wish this on an enemy, let alone a poor little parrot.
I am seriously considering putting Decibel up for adoption at the local bird store. She would be "consignment," but I wouldn't want any money for her -- only a home where she could split the eardrums of her family and be around some hustle and bustle.
Decibel is very attached to met, but I am getting older, and she is still young. She bites, but I think that the right owner could get her back into pirate mode.
Just another cheerful thing for me to contemplate at this juncture in my life. When people speak of "empty nest syndrome," they don't usually think about pet birds. I'm thinking about it. For all her love of me, her vocabulary and occasional tunes, Decibel isn't living with the stimulus a parrot needs. It's hard to know what to do. She can speak, but she can't speak her mind.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Decibel's Antagonist Revealed
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where all parrots are lean, green, biting machines! Here's an update on the story below, in which Decibel, my macaw, got doused with Coca-Cola and otherwise pestered by an elementary school kid on her way home in the afternoon.
Today I clocked out at school just as soon as the "teacher bell" rang. I rushed home so I could be at my house in time for the local elementary to let out. I "baited" my porch with Decibel, who had been inside all day.
Sure enough, at about 3:20 I saw a girl come up on my porch. She started talking to Decibel and sticking her fingers in the cage.
So I went outside, calmly. Immediately it became clear that the girl in question has neurological difficulties.
First of all, she was old enough to know better than to pester a parrot, but she greeted me in a friendly way, with no remorse about what she was doing. I asked if I could walk to her home with her, and as we walked, she asked a dozen questions about Decibel that you might expect a much younger kid to ask. The one thing she asked me was, "Is he always that excited?" And I said, "No, he gets mad when someone puts their fingers in his cage."
Long story short, the girl was being babysat by her aunt, who told me that the girl has autism and has been bitten by other animals.
Decibel will stay indoors for now. Perhaps in the spring we will return him to the porch, but only if someone is watching him during after-school walk-home.
Personally I am ashamed of myself for thinking that Decibel's tormentor was malicious. Snobville has a heaping helping of mean kids, but this little girl is not among them.
Today I clocked out at school just as soon as the "teacher bell" rang. I rushed home so I could be at my house in time for the local elementary to let out. I "baited" my porch with Decibel, who had been inside all day.
Sure enough, at about 3:20 I saw a girl come up on my porch. She started talking to Decibel and sticking her fingers in the cage.
So I went outside, calmly. Immediately it became clear that the girl in question has neurological difficulties.
First of all, she was old enough to know better than to pester a parrot, but she greeted me in a friendly way, with no remorse about what she was doing. I asked if I could walk to her home with her, and as we walked, she asked a dozen questions about Decibel that you might expect a much younger kid to ask. The one thing she asked me was, "Is he always that excited?" And I said, "No, he gets mad when someone puts their fingers in his cage."
Long story short, the girl was being babysat by her aunt, who told me that the girl has autism and has been bitten by other animals.
Decibel will stay indoors for now. Perhaps in the spring we will return him to the porch, but only if someone is watching him during after-school walk-home.
Personally I am ashamed of myself for thinking that Decibel's tormentor was malicious. Snobville has a heaping helping of mean kids, but this little girl is not among them.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Another Controversial Dog Blog
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we love all domesticated animals, from hamsters to horses! If it purrs, barks, or squeaks, we're all for it.
However, we think owning pets should be governed by a certain logic.
The other morning I caught a snippet of some news show (don't you love the way I link?) in which a 70-year-old woman was denied the adoption of a puppy by a pet shelter. The shelter suggested that the woman adopt an older dog, because, well ... do the math.
The woman claimed that she had a 40-year-old son living at home who could take care of the dog if and when she couldn't. Why she didn't send that man to adopt the dog is a puzzlement. She didn't say what he might have done or not done that would be considered unworthy of pet adoption by an animal shelter.
This is personal for me. When my parents were in their sixties, they adopted a strong young hound -- the long-legged kind you see baying after foxes in the English countryside. The animal shelter people loved the dog and wanted to see him adopted at any cost. They didn't look at Mom's lazy fatness and Dad's incipient but noticeable Parkinson's disease. They just found a home for a favorite doggie.
Then Dad had to walk doggie. On countless occasions, the powerful animal pulled Dad off his feet. Once it happened in a remote area near an abandoned barn.
Heck, that dog was even too big for my parents' little house. His hound-baying could be heard a block away, and he seemed to fill any room he entered. Nor did age wither his abilities to bark or lunge on his leash unpredictably. It's lucky that the only person he ever bit was me, because any stranger would have pressed charges.
I don't blame the hound. I blame the shelter. I stand on the side of reason here. A 70-year-old should not adopt a puppy. It's not fair to the puppy. Pups belong in houses with young parents and little kids, so that the kids grow up with a trusted friend at their side. Or with young singles who want to jog every day.
The same goes for kittens. I've raised more than 50 foster kittens, but I've never kept a single one. My two live-in cats are of mature years. When they go (and I hope it's not for awhile), I'll adopt a mature cat, if I adopt any at all. I'm still in mid-life, but I don't want to be saddled with a young cat when I have to move out of my house.
So, facing the wrath of some, we at "The Gods Are Bored" go on record as being against the adoption of puppies by people of retirement age. There are so many grown dogs languishing in pens ... dogs that would live a decade with less exercise and less space, and be happy the whole time. And considering that Woodstock Training Company just lost a cat that was 19 and had lived in the store her whole life, I strongly suggest retirees pass on kittens as well.
Remember, it's not just about you. It's about the pet as well.
This free advice comes from the owner of a despicably loud macaw that will outlive its owner. Ask me what I would do if I could make that decision a second time! Talk about a ball-and-chain.
However, we think owning pets should be governed by a certain logic.
The other morning I caught a snippet of some news show (don't you love the way I link?) in which a 70-year-old woman was denied the adoption of a puppy by a pet shelter. The shelter suggested that the woman adopt an older dog, because, well ... do the math.
The woman claimed that she had a 40-year-old son living at home who could take care of the dog if and when she couldn't. Why she didn't send that man to adopt the dog is a puzzlement. She didn't say what he might have done or not done that would be considered unworthy of pet adoption by an animal shelter.
This is personal for me. When my parents were in their sixties, they adopted a strong young hound -- the long-legged kind you see baying after foxes in the English countryside. The animal shelter people loved the dog and wanted to see him adopted at any cost. They didn't look at Mom's lazy fatness and Dad's incipient but noticeable Parkinson's disease. They just found a home for a favorite doggie.
Then Dad had to walk doggie. On countless occasions, the powerful animal pulled Dad off his feet. Once it happened in a remote area near an abandoned barn.
Heck, that dog was even too big for my parents' little house. His hound-baying could be heard a block away, and he seemed to fill any room he entered. Nor did age wither his abilities to bark or lunge on his leash unpredictably. It's lucky that the only person he ever bit was me, because any stranger would have pressed charges.
I don't blame the hound. I blame the shelter. I stand on the side of reason here. A 70-year-old should not adopt a puppy. It's not fair to the puppy. Pups belong in houses with young parents and little kids, so that the kids grow up with a trusted friend at their side. Or with young singles who want to jog every day.
The same goes for kittens. I've raised more than 50 foster kittens, but I've never kept a single one. My two live-in cats are of mature years. When they go (and I hope it's not for awhile), I'll adopt a mature cat, if I adopt any at all. I'm still in mid-life, but I don't want to be saddled with a young cat when I have to move out of my house.
So, facing the wrath of some, we at "The Gods Are Bored" go on record as being against the adoption of puppies by people of retirement age. There are so many grown dogs languishing in pens ... dogs that would live a decade with less exercise and less space, and be happy the whole time. And considering that Woodstock Training Company just lost a cat that was 19 and had lived in the store her whole life, I strongly suggest retirees pass on kittens as well.
Remember, it's not just about you. It's about the pet as well.
This free advice comes from the owner of a despicably loud macaw that will outlive its owner. Ask me what I would do if I could make that decision a second time! Talk about a ball-and-chain.
Monday, March 16, 2009
The Wrong One Flew
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," anxiously overseeing our little nest and hoping a storm doesn't blow it to bits! Those of you who've been through losing a home will know exactly what I mean.
My daughter The Heir is mostly through her first year of college. The Heir took an extra year of kindergarten and was thus 19 when she began school last fall. You'd think I'd have been tired of her stink by that time, but I was deeply sorry to see her go.
Once she got to college, I actually missed her less. She's working hard and has made new friends, and she has her own radio show on the college station. It's a comfort knowing she's found a good academic fit and isn't celebrating her independence by pouring beer down her gullet and dousing her t-shirt with water.
Heir's spring break was last week. I took a day off work, and we went on a mini-road trip. We drove to the Jersey Shore, where we settled in deserted Wildwood (many, many 1950s-era motels, Heir loves that kind of stuff). After having a sandwich at the only diner that was open, we walked the empty boardwalk, stared at the empty amusement piers, and took a long stroll on the beach, down by the surf.
This gave us plenty of time to talk. And it was a pleasure to see The Heir go all gooey over those cheesy motels. It's like the town has a competition to see who can win "Craziest Motel Theme." I mean, come on. A hotel called "The Crusader," with a two-story mosaic of a Knight Templar on the side? Tacky just doesn't begin to cover it.
But that's Wildwood, NJ. It's famous for such foolishness.
A word about finding dangerous stuff in the sand at the Jersey Shore:
YES.
Sorry, Gov. Corzine, but the truth will out.
Heir and I were enjoying the pounding surf when she looked down and said, "Oh, it had to happen."
Lying at our feet was a razor blade. Just outta nowhere.
I guess we could be defying the odds by finding a razor blade on a 10-mile stretch of beach, on a mid-March day. But you know, it's the Jersey Shore, and Wildwood at that. So we're not talking long odds here.
Notwithstanding the stray health hazard, and the incessant drone of bulldozers building beaches -- everywhere we went -- Heir and I enjoyed our day at the shore. We even headed home on the Delsea Drive, a back road that winds straight from Cape May to Wenonah, home roost of every buzzard who is any buzzard in the Garden State.
Yesterday Heir went back to college. It was harder than ever to leave her in that great big dorm. But she'll be home soon for the summer. Heck, at the end of four years she'll probably be home again for a long time. What do you do with a liberal arts degree in a state where you can't rent a slum box for less than $1000 a month?
Today I'm sitting here in my home office, with Decibel the Parrot beside me in his cage. The Heir is going to be 20, but Decibel is older. He's 22 and showing no signs of slowing down. IN FACT, EVEN AS I WRITE HE'S SCREECHING AT THE TOP OF HIS BLOODY LUNGS.
Why can't parrots go to college? I won't even ask for financial aid.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Cry for Help
HELLO, IT'S ME, DECIBEL THE PARROT!
AUTUMN HAS ARRIVED IN THE GREAT BLUE NORTHEAST!
HOW COME I'M STILL ON THE FRONT PORCH? IT'S COLD OUT HERE!
THE SPARROWS HAVE FIGURED OUT HOW TO SNEAK INTO MY CAGE AND EAT MY FOOD!
(THE SQUIRRELS FIGURED IT OUT LONG AGO.)
WHAT'S GOING ON HERE? WHERE'S ANNE? WHERE'S HEIR? I KEEP CALLING "HEIR! HEIR! HEIR!" I HAVEN'T SEEN HEIR IN WEEKS!
IF MACAWS WERE SUPPOSED TO LIVE IN THE GREAT BLUE NORTHEAST, WE WOULD BE HERE!
SO COLD. SEND SEED.
FROM DECIBEL
SQWAAAAAAAK! IT'S TALK LIKE A PARROT DAY!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)