Empty Nesters and Their Pets:

Ode to a Fallen Budgie

by William Bedford

Wild Bird Lover
Birds have always fascinated me. I remember, as a kid, lying on my back in the meadow and watching a hawk circle slowly in the sky until, spotting a field mouse, it would dive lightning fast into the tall grass and reappear seconds later with its prey imprisoned in its deadly talons. I used to take care of the birds I found limping around the barn who suffered from shotgun wounds. I remember once nursing a badly wounded mallard back to life. It stayed with me for more than a year, and then one day, it flew away forever. Whether it found a mate, or fell to another hunter's gun, I'll never know.

Birds of all seasons are a joy to behold: Chirping robins in the spring, swans gliding on a summer pond, the flash of pheasants in the fall, gulls swirling on a wintry shore. But birds in cages are another matter. As far as I was concerned, birds and cages were mutually exclusive. At least, that's the way I saw it until Joey came into my life.

Bosom Buddies
It all began innocently enough. After our daughter had “flown the nest,” my wife and I were browsing around a small town when we happened on a pet store that had some budgies in a big cage in the window. As we watched them flitting from perch to perch, one of them caught my wife's attention. With its deep purplish wings and snow-white head and breast, it was a beauty, for sure. My wife decided there and then that she had to have that bird. It would, she said, be her Christmas present to herself.

But I had something to say about that, I'll tell you. And I said it in no uncertain terms: "It would be a frosty Friday in July before I would have a caged bird in the house! Case closed." My wife, hearing not a word of it, purchased the budgie, plus a cage and a few boxes of birdseed, and that was that.

As soon as we arrived home, my wife, being nothing if not original, named her new pet “Joey.” When she opened the cage door in order to put a small mirror inside, Joey came out like a rocket and, giving a great imitation of a kamikaze pilot, flew into the wall, then the door, and then the buffet. He flew into everything, in fact, that looked solid. He seemed bent on committing suicide, and I secretly hoped he'd succeed. Better dead, than caged, I thought. My wife decided to leave Joey's cage door open so he could come and go as he pleased. After that, he would enter his cage only to eat and drink; he even slept on top of it. The attention my wife showered on her pet turned out to be in vain. In spite of all of her efforts, he just didn't take to her. For some unknown reason, Joey decided that I was going to be his buddy. And, so, in spite of myself, I fell slowly under his spell.

As the weeks went by, Joey and I became inseparable. He nestled on my shoulder while I read the newspaper. He perched on the edge of my glass whenever he wanted a drink. He also loved to shower while I washed my hands in the bathroom sink. His top favorite sport, however, was riding on my razor while I shaved. You haven't lived until you've shaved with a budgie perched on your razor! While Joey and I were having all of this fun, my wife took care of the other stuff, like cleaning his cage and supplying him with fresh seed and water.

Losing a Friend
One evening, Joey went into his cage and wouldn't come out, no matter how much we coaxed him. He refused all food and water. Being an “expert” on budgies by this time, I figured Joey was just having an off day, like we all have from time to time—just leave him alone, I thought, and he would be right as rain by tomorrow. When I got up the next morning, Sunday, the first thing I did was check on Joey. He was lying on the floor of his cage. He was dead.

Without waking my wife, I took Joey out of his cage, put him in a small box, went outside, and buried him in the yard. When I returned to the kitchen, my wife was fixing breakfast. After I told her about Joey's funeral, we watched the news while sipping our coffee, as was our usual custom on holidays and weekends. The news from around the world was the same old litany of horrors: widespread famine in Africa, mindless slaughter in the Middle East, chaos in Haiti, and here at home—in the midst of plenty—the food banks were running short. With so much suffering in the world, the death of a budgie sure seemed like pretty small stuff indeed. So, someone's bird dies on a Sunday morning—so what? Who the hell cares? Who’ll miss a lousy budgie, anyway?

I will.

Canadian Free Press “Poet in Residence” William Bedford was born in Dublin, Ireland, but he has lived in Toronto for most of his life. His poems and articles have appeared in many Canadian journals and in some American publications as well. He’s a pro at empty nesting—he has a daughter, three grandchildren (all engineers), and twin great-grandsons. William can be reached at: letters@canadafreepress.com.