kipper
One of the items on the Adorable Five-Year-Old Niece's Christmas list was a parakeet. She took quite a shine to her friend's bird a few months ago and thus a wish was born. Since then, she's fantasized about having a bird and even named her prospective pet well in advance: Kipper. Deciding that it was a more manageable pet than the puppy the niece has been requesting for years, her parents decided to grant this wish.
I went to PetSmart or Petco or Petwhateverthefuckit'scalled with my sister on Christmas Eve to help select the much ballyhooed bird. The plan was to pick up the thing and then bring it back to my parents' house where my father had a cage ready and waiting with bird seed, fresh water and myriad toys to keep it entertained and safe from the niece's snooping.
We pulled into the pet store parking lot and the first thing we saw was a dog wearing reindeer antlers and a baggy t-shirt. We uttered a simultaneous, "What the hell?" before my sister deduced that Santa was in the store posing for pictures with pets. "God, I hope this store isn't filled with freaks," she spat. "Yeah. And if you're going to dress up your dog, don't make it look like a dirt bag. Look at that grungy t-shirt! How about a nice sweater or something?" Yes, even poor wee dogs are not safe from the patented brand of Curly McDimple cattiness.
Inside the store, I peered into all the cages and said hello to the various birds. I even silently debated getting a bird myself. Those finches are quite cute! But then I realized that they shit all over the cage and I'd have to clean it up plus they make a lot of racket with all that chirping. So, um, no on the bird.
The sister remained focused on the parakeets and eventually selected an ice blue one. He's really pretty! Actually, I'm not entirely sure that he's a he. My sister inquired about the sex and the clerk said, "We don't know. In order to find out, we'd have to do a blood test but we only do that if requested because we don't want to traumatize the birds." The sister and I gasped and said, "Ew" in unison as we visualized the bird getting blood drawn.
See, me and the oldest sister are a bit more squeamish than the other two McDimple girls. Actually, those two aren't squeamish at all as they're both in the health field and deal with funky shit on a regular basis. I work in publishing, yo. I stay as far away from blood and guts as possible. I'm not the least bit curious about my innards or your innards or anyone else's innards for that matter. Hell, I watch most of ER with my eyes covered and ears plugged on account of all the suction and squishy organ noises. Blech. My mouth is starting to foam just thinking about that program. Excuse me while I go eat a Saltine...
Okay, so back at the pet store my sister asked the clerk if the bird's wings were clipped. We both heard the clerk say, "Yes. We clip all of their wings." Please note that I do feel bad about this practice but well, that's a debate for another blog. Don't give me any grief if you disagree with the procedure. It ain't my bird.
Anyhoo, satisfied that Kipper wouldn't take flight, the paperwork was signed and the bird was placed in a cardboard box with air holes. While waiting for the cashier to ring us up, I found it kinda funny that we had to put Kipper's box on a conveyor belt near the cash register like he was groceries. I was half expecting the cashier to swipe him over a scanner to price him. I similarly wondered if he would have made a beeping noise if we tried to skip out without paying. Thoughts?
Next up was a 15-minute car ride to my parents' house. I sat in the passenger seat holding the box tightly on my lap and chatting with the bird and doing my best to shield him from bumps and potholes. When we arrived at the McDimple house all ready to release Kipper into his fancy, toy-filled cage, we were informed that my father forgot to set everything up. His water bottle, jingly key thing, beak scratcher hoozamawhatzie and several other items were still in their original packaging. DAMN!!!
We didn't want to take the bird out of the box, put him in the cage only to keep opening the door and rattling the cage while trying to fasten various devices throughout. The poor bird would have flipped out. So in the box he stayed while me, my mother and my father frantically opened the packages and engaged in a few rounds of "What's this thing for?" and "Where do you think this is supposed to go?" Mind you, the oldest sister had scheduled a facial so she was out the door and left the rest of us holding the bag of bird seed, if you will.
So we fastened, tied and snapped things in place and finally Kipper's home was ready. I volunteered to make the transfer from the box to the cage. I opened up the flaps and greeted the bird warmly and informed him of my intentions. "Okay buddy, just relax. Oh, and please don't peck me."
I should point out that the McDimples are not pet people. We never had any save for a couple of suicidal goldfish years ago. I love dogs and am very comfortable around them but even so, I wash my hands after I pet them. All other domesticated creatures make me a bit uneasy. I've grown to love The Lovely Jess' cats but when one of them, that would be John Brown on the right, stares me down, I get a bit nervous and flustered. Cat stares totally make me lose my train of thought. Oh and don't come near me with ferrets and shit like that. I will break down in hysterics (click here for evidence of my rodent-inspired dementia).
My point, and I do have one, is that it was rather brave of me to volunteer to fish around in a box for a nervous bird and move him to his new digs.
So I tried talking him through the procedure assuring Kipper that it would be a quick and painless journey from cardboard to cage. I clutched him gently but then released my grip because I was scared that I'd break him because of his small size. He must have sensed my trepidation because he then flapped his wings violently causing me to scream and jump back 10 feet.
Realizing I was being silly, I composed myself and went in for a second attempt. Denied. Um, yeah, that promise the clerk made about the clipped wings? Not so much. Kipper had no trouble flying right out of the box with his very much intact and highly-functional wings.
The McDimple house was officially in a tizzy. I ducked and screamed while the bird raced around the living room in a panic. My mother came running out of the kitchen to see what the commotion was and then promptly ran back in when she saw the bird dive-bombing us and her furniture. My poor arthritic father had to dodge, weave and duck to evade Kipper's erratic flight path and then do it all over again on the bird's return trip.
Kipper then made a crash landing in my Mom's Department 56 Dickens' Village. He looked quite cute sitting next to Victoria Station, I must say. But my father was in hot pursuit so Kipper fled old-time London and did a few more laps around the living room before landing atop a framed painting.
We let him calm down for a moment and took that time to compose ourselves as well. When my father made his next attempt, Kipper once again took flight right over my Dad's head... and smack dab right into the mirror over the fireplace. My father, mother and I let out a sympathetic groan similar to the audience's response when some poor slob gets hit in the nuts on America's Funniest Home Videos. OUCH!
"That bird is going to kill himself! Missus, hand me a tea towel*!" commanded my father.
"What? My good tea towel?" my mother protested.
"We'll wash it. Just get it!" I exclaimed.
My mother came back from the kitchen with her good tea towel and my father promptly draped it over Kipper. As he scooped him up, my father experienced that same bout of "I hope I don't crush him" that befell me earlier. So the bird seized the moment and made a break for it... and smacked head first into the painting that served as his previous perch. Another groan arose from all humans present.
Finally my father was able to subdue the panicked parakeet and after much ado, place him in his cage. The poor thing's heart was pounding a mile a minute and he clung to the side of the cage for a good hour or two. We were certain we had just rendered the Adorable Five-Year-Old Niece's brand-new-and-highly-anticipated parakeet retarded.
We each tried talking to him to calm him down but it wasn't helping. My father was the worst of all. Every time he clucked, chirped and whistled at the shell-shocked bird, the thing dropped a deuce. There's nothing soothing about my father's deep, gruff voice, let me tell you. It still makes me a bit incontinent, yo.
Fearing that Kipper would be scarred for life, I sought advice in the book on parakeets my sister bought. Armed with a few skimmed chapters of knowledge, I informed everyone that we had to give the bird some privacy for a few hours. Oh and we also had to refrain from using non-stick pans and cooking surfaces. The fumes, you see...
So we covered Kipper's cage and left him alone and sure enough, we heard him eating, flapping his wings and playing with his toys, safely away from our gawking and pathetic attempts at socialization.
I'm happy to report that by Christmas morning, Kipper was jumping from perch to perch and swinging from his toys in full view of everyone. So he's not retarded after all. I wish I could say the same for his adoptive-extended family...
______________________________
* The British term for dish towel.
I went to PetSmart or Petco or Petwhateverthefuckit'scalled with my sister on Christmas Eve to help select the much ballyhooed bird. The plan was to pick up the thing and then bring it back to my parents' house where my father had a cage ready and waiting with bird seed, fresh water and myriad toys to keep it entertained and safe from the niece's snooping.
We pulled into the pet store parking lot and the first thing we saw was a dog wearing reindeer antlers and a baggy t-shirt. We uttered a simultaneous, "What the hell?" before my sister deduced that Santa was in the store posing for pictures with pets. "God, I hope this store isn't filled with freaks," she spat. "Yeah. And if you're going to dress up your dog, don't make it look like a dirt bag. Look at that grungy t-shirt! How about a nice sweater or something?" Yes, even poor wee dogs are not safe from the patented brand of Curly McDimple cattiness.
Inside the store, I peered into all the cages and said hello to the various birds. I even silently debated getting a bird myself. Those finches are quite cute! But then I realized that they shit all over the cage and I'd have to clean it up plus they make a lot of racket with all that chirping. So, um, no on the bird.
The sister remained focused on the parakeets and eventually selected an ice blue one. He's really pretty! Actually, I'm not entirely sure that he's a he. My sister inquired about the sex and the clerk said, "We don't know. In order to find out, we'd have to do a blood test but we only do that if requested because we don't want to traumatize the birds." The sister and I gasped and said, "Ew" in unison as we visualized the bird getting blood drawn.
See, me and the oldest sister are a bit more squeamish than the other two McDimple girls. Actually, those two aren't squeamish at all as they're both in the health field and deal with funky shit on a regular basis. I work in publishing, yo. I stay as far away from blood and guts as possible. I'm not the least bit curious about my innards or your innards or anyone else's innards for that matter. Hell, I watch most of ER with my eyes covered and ears plugged on account of all the suction and squishy organ noises. Blech. My mouth is starting to foam just thinking about that program. Excuse me while I go eat a Saltine...
Okay, so back at the pet store my sister asked the clerk if the bird's wings were clipped. We both heard the clerk say, "Yes. We clip all of their wings." Please note that I do feel bad about this practice but well, that's a debate for another blog. Don't give me any grief if you disagree with the procedure. It ain't my bird.
Anyhoo, satisfied that Kipper wouldn't take flight, the paperwork was signed and the bird was placed in a cardboard box with air holes. While waiting for the cashier to ring us up, I found it kinda funny that we had to put Kipper's box on a conveyor belt near the cash register like he was groceries. I was half expecting the cashier to swipe him over a scanner to price him. I similarly wondered if he would have made a beeping noise if we tried to skip out without paying. Thoughts?
Next up was a 15-minute car ride to my parents' house. I sat in the passenger seat holding the box tightly on my lap and chatting with the bird and doing my best to shield him from bumps and potholes. When we arrived at the McDimple house all ready to release Kipper into his fancy, toy-filled cage, we were informed that my father forgot to set everything up. His water bottle, jingly key thing, beak scratcher hoozamawhatzie and several other items were still in their original packaging. DAMN!!!
We didn't want to take the bird out of the box, put him in the cage only to keep opening the door and rattling the cage while trying to fasten various devices throughout. The poor bird would have flipped out. So in the box he stayed while me, my mother and my father frantically opened the packages and engaged in a few rounds of "What's this thing for?" and "Where do you think this is supposed to go?" Mind you, the oldest sister had scheduled a facial so she was out the door and left the rest of us holding the bag of bird seed, if you will.
So we fastened, tied and snapped things in place and finally Kipper's home was ready. I volunteered to make the transfer from the box to the cage. I opened up the flaps and greeted the bird warmly and informed him of my intentions. "Okay buddy, just relax. Oh, and please don't peck me."
I should point out that the McDimples are not pet people. We never had any save for a couple of suicidal goldfish years ago. I love dogs and am very comfortable around them but even so, I wash my hands after I pet them. All other domesticated creatures make me a bit uneasy. I've grown to love The Lovely Jess' cats but when one of them, that would be John Brown on the right, stares me down, I get a bit nervous and flustered. Cat stares totally make me lose my train of thought. Oh and don't come near me with ferrets and shit like that. I will break down in hysterics (click here for evidence of my rodent-inspired dementia). My point, and I do have one, is that it was rather brave of me to volunteer to fish around in a box for a nervous bird and move him to his new digs.
So I tried talking him through the procedure assuring Kipper that it would be a quick and painless journey from cardboard to cage. I clutched him gently but then released my grip because I was scared that I'd break him because of his small size. He must have sensed my trepidation because he then flapped his wings violently causing me to scream and jump back 10 feet.
Realizing I was being silly, I composed myself and went in for a second attempt. Denied. Um, yeah, that promise the clerk made about the clipped wings? Not so much. Kipper had no trouble flying right out of the box with his very much intact and highly-functional wings.
The McDimple house was officially in a tizzy. I ducked and screamed while the bird raced around the living room in a panic. My mother came running out of the kitchen to see what the commotion was and then promptly ran back in when she saw the bird dive-bombing us and her furniture. My poor arthritic father had to dodge, weave and duck to evade Kipper's erratic flight path and then do it all over again on the bird's return trip.
Kipper then made a crash landing in my Mom's Department 56 Dickens' Village. He looked quite cute sitting next to Victoria Station, I must say. But my father was in hot pursuit so Kipper fled old-time London and did a few more laps around the living room before landing atop a framed painting.
We let him calm down for a moment and took that time to compose ourselves as well. When my father made his next attempt, Kipper once again took flight right over my Dad's head... and smack dab right into the mirror over the fireplace. My father, mother and I let out a sympathetic groan similar to the audience's response when some poor slob gets hit in the nuts on America's Funniest Home Videos. OUCH!
"That bird is going to kill himself! Missus, hand me a tea towel*!" commanded my father.
"What? My good tea towel?" my mother protested.
"We'll wash it. Just get it!" I exclaimed.
My mother came back from the kitchen with her good tea towel and my father promptly draped it over Kipper. As he scooped him up, my father experienced that same bout of "I hope I don't crush him" that befell me earlier. So the bird seized the moment and made a break for it... and smacked head first into the painting that served as his previous perch. Another groan arose from all humans present.
Finally my father was able to subdue the panicked parakeet and after much ado, place him in his cage. The poor thing's heart was pounding a mile a minute and he clung to the side of the cage for a good hour or two. We were certain we had just rendered the Adorable Five-Year-Old Niece's brand-new-and-highly-anticipated parakeet retarded.
We each tried talking to him to calm him down but it wasn't helping. My father was the worst of all. Every time he clucked, chirped and whistled at the shell-shocked bird, the thing dropped a deuce. There's nothing soothing about my father's deep, gruff voice, let me tell you. It still makes me a bit incontinent, yo.
Fearing that Kipper would be scarred for life, I sought advice in the book on parakeets my sister bought. Armed with a few skimmed chapters of knowledge, I informed everyone that we had to give the bird some privacy for a few hours. Oh and we also had to refrain from using non-stick pans and cooking surfaces. The fumes, you see...So we covered Kipper's cage and left him alone and sure enough, we heard him eating, flapping his wings and playing with his toys, safely away from our gawking and pathetic attempts at socialization.
I'm happy to report that by Christmas morning, Kipper was jumping from perch to perch and swinging from his toys in full view of everyone. So he's not retarded after all. I wish I could say the same for his adoptive-extended family...
______________________________
* The British term for dish towel.
posted by curly mcdimple @ 12:15 AM :: permalink :: ::
