A Tale Of Two Parakeets: The Real Killer Is Revealed.Posted: November 11, 2011
The thrilling end of the tale that started here.
You may recall that Clarence was one of two parakeets bought for me by a woman I dated. I named Clarence after an old wino I knew and he outlived two other birds who’d lived in the cage with him.
Clarence took the rap for the demise of both the birds he outlived. Both times the girlfriend was convinced he had killed the other bird because I’d given him the name of this wino. I was beginning to be convinced of certain things about her.
Clarence Does Time In Solitary
So having “killed” two other birds, she decided that we were not going to give Clarence another victim to live with. I went along with this because it was not worth the debate. Perhaps I’d have had a bit more of a leg to stand on if I hadn’t tried to hide the death of that first bird.
Over time, I started noticing some changes in the now solitarily confined parakeet. He got quiet. His appetite stayed good, but he looked awful. He had feathers sticking out in places they shouldn’t have been. I thought Clarence was dying. I felt sure he was, but he kept hanging on. He ate, he stared off into space, he got shabbier looking. Day after day, he didn’t improve, didn’t get worse.
I commented about Clarence’s condition to my girlfriend. I tossed out the idea that his health concerns might be related to a lack of a social life. She told me there was no way that bird missed anyone. She told me that he probably was just bored because he didn’t have anyone to kill. I was sort of starting to not like her as much as I did before. Maybe it was because she was not tuned in to bird psychology like I was.
She bought a new bird for me, even though she wasn’t a psychologist that I liked.
Suddenly, Improvement. Sort Of.
We put the new bird in the cage with Clarence. Almost immediately, he started tidying himself up. Clarence sang for the first time in months. I pointed that out to her; she said whatever the equivalent to saying “whatever” was back then. Whatever that whatever was, it was getting old.
I named the new bird Burdette. Like Clarence, Burdette was another wino I knew on a professional basis. Since it sounded like Bird-ette, it was an easy sell to the girlfriend and I was happy knowing I now had two birds named after old winos with extensive criminal histories. Or perhaps I was just into being jerk as the inevitable end approached.
Finally, it happened. No, another bird didn’t die, but that’s coming. She moved out.
In the long run, we were both better off that it happened. As I think about it, in the short run, it was pretty good for both of us too. A few years later, I told her that Burdette was a wino. I also told her the last part of the tale, it was good for a laugh. Or perhaps she saw it as one last bit of justice.
Unlike O.J., I Find The Real Killer
Well, you had to see this coming. I came home one day and Clarence was gone. He’d led a full life. What other parakeet could say he had beat a murder rap and survived solitary confinement?
When I first saw him there,with his back on the newsprint on the floor of the cage and his feet pointed at the little bell at the top of the cage, it never occurred to me that Burdette might have killed Clarence. Now I think he might have.
You see, while I was in the process of getting Clarence out of the cage, Burdette escaped. I was certain he was heading for the patio door I had open, but he landed on the carpet facing me. He just sat there, looking at me. I ran past him and closed the door. When I turned from the door, he’d moved and was facing me. We looked at one another for an awkward moment.
I decided I should try to limit the number of rooms he could get into so I’d have an easier time capturing him. I ran past him and down the hall. I closed the bathroom, then the bedroom door at the end of the hall. I turned and there he was at the end of the hall, facing me for another awkward moment. It occurred to me that he was following me. Being stalked by a bird is no picnic. Then, he tried to kill me.
Yes, kill me. He took flight toward me. I was at the dead-end of the hall, with the door closed behind me, and he flew at me. I ducked and he hit the door behind my head. I ran to the other end of the hall. He was standing with his back to the door, facing me. Another awkward moment, then another airborne kamikaze run at my head. I ran into the living room. We battled for an hour, until a pillow case and I captured the winged desperado alive.
O.J. Simpson scoured golf courses around the world in his search for “the real killer”. He was looking in the wrong place. The real killer was in my living room, wearing feathers.
I wonder if she trained that bird.
“She was not what you would call refined. She was not quite what you would call unrefined. She was the kind of person that keeps a parrot.” Mark Twain
Whatever, Mark. Whatever.
- A Tale Of Two Parakeets – Clarence Takes The Rap (blurts.wordpress.com)