This tale is about a teeny trauma in an even teenier teapot. Nevertheless, it really rattled me.
My daughter Lisa and her English husband, Peter, asked me to mind their two beloved budgies for a week; she wanted to show Peter Niagara Falls. They cherished BB and Blue. I’d never looked after, or had a clue about, avians. “Oh, how hard could it be?” I muttered as I secured their cages with seatbelts and drove them from Saginaw to Sunnybank House in Traverse City.
They gazed out the windows, enjoying the way their perches swayed. When I turned the radio off, they sang; when I dialed in classical music they froze, closed their eyes and let the melodies wash over them. Hmm, I thought. These two have taste!
After hurriedly bringing them in, in blanketed cages- it was snowy and freezing outside- I prepared the front bedroom by draping the furniture and carpet with old sheets. (Budgies poop minutely every 15 minutes, but their droppings dry quickly and are easily cleaned up.) A big triangular wood-finished electric fireplace was situated snugly in one corner, right up against the wall. I set their cages on its generous mantel.
For the first six days the birds and I got on fine. Both were delighted when I visited with treats, like fresh broccoli. They flew large, circular patterns around the room, then landed on my shoulder, or in my hair, and sang lovely songs. Four-year old BB gently groomed my eyebrows and murmured affectionately. I played with them every day for at least two hours, then left them alone in there to fly around, chat, and enjoy soft music.
Fast-forward to their last evening. I’d drive them back to Saginaw the next day.
I’d popped in around 5 and noticed BB already in her cage. Good. I closed and secured the cage door.
Obstinate Blue wouldn’t be coaxed into his cage, though. I needed a bribe.
Around 6 p.m. I popped in again waving a twig full of millet seeds, Blue’s favorite treat. To my surprise, he wasn’t perched on top of his cage. I looked inside it. No Blue. I looked at the windowsill, where both birdies often gazed outside. Nope. Baffled, I began to call. There was no answering chirp, not even from BB.
Wait a minute. That was odd. Why hadn’t BB responded? I strolled to her cage, peeked in, and gasped. NO BIRD.
I was gobsmacked. This was impossible. This was nuts. How could there be NO bird in there? It was absolutely impossible for her to get out. I unlatched the cage door and peered inside. No one was home.
This could signal a world of trouble. The house was normally kept very cool. If they’d somehow escaped and flown into the main upstairs area, or even downstairs - (IMPOSSIBLE!! I was always careful)- they could be anywhere. They could freeze to death. Tropical birds crave warmth.
Keeping the bedroom door shut I began to search. In slow motion, so as not to crush the tiny bodies, I peeked carefully under every big sheet, crawled under the beds, and examined every corner. I even checked under my shoes and scanned the ceiling. Nothing. Mounting fear made my mouth was dry enough to spit cotton. My heart thumped.
I repeated the search over and over. I called, waved the millet, and listened. Silence.
I must have re-checked BB’s cage a dozen times, still thunderstruck.
Finally, after an awful hour or so, I gathered my fear-rattled wits and made a plan.
1. Search the second story. (It was a vast area, cold and dark now, well after 7 o’clock.)
2. Do another search of the bedroom with an LED flashlight.
3. Bring in a tall ladder to inspect the bedroom’s high ceiling and corners. I possessed only one eye; surely it could spot two birds. But it had fooled me before…
4. You’re worn out. It’s very late for you. Give up, and go to bed. (Yeah, right. No chance of that.)
I gave up on number 1 as soon as I went into the hall. Hopeless.
The flashlight search yielded only startled under-bed dust bunnies.
I positioned the big ladder I dragged in from the garage, and climbed up to the white fan. I’d looked up at it a hundred times, and seen nothing... I moved the fan blades gently. Oh, Lord! A long, blue-feathered tail hung limply over a blade edge. At once horrified and hopeful, I touched it. No response. Sick at heart, I climbed higher.
And there was the rest of him. Absolutely still. I dangled the millet twig by his beak and chirped his song. Eventually, one eye opened…Suddenly, I fully understood.
NOT dead! Deeply asleep! That wretched bird was roosting!
Though I’d lowered the shades at five-ish, the room was still brightly lit. But bright light didn’t matter a fig. Blue had known what time it was.
After much coaxing, he climbed sleepily onto my finger, eyes shut. Carefully backing down the ladder, praying he wouldn’t fly, I eased him onto his cage perch, and secured the door with a thankful gasp.
It’s impossible to describe how relieved I was.
But - where was BB? Could this Houdini possibly be behind the electric fireplace? Not even a mouse could squeeze into that space…
I snatched the big flashlight, leaned forward and shined it between one wall and the fireplace sidewall.
Nothing.
BUT, wedged in on the other side, was 5 oz. BB, asleep. I dangled the millet twig, called, and offered my finger. She struggled to rouse and move, but couldn’t gain purchase in that narrow canyon with her one clawed foot. (Her other foot had been amputated last year due to an accident.) I stuck my finger deeper into the crack---and, after a heroic struggle, she managed to position herself on its tip. Still on my knees, groaning with effort, I managed to shift the big fireplace a quarter-inch, and eased her out. Was a wing broken? BB hates to be handled, so I only looked. They were tidily folded, and seemed fine. Carefully I set her onto her perch, let her nibble a few seeds, shut the door and lowered her cage blanket.
I was absolutely exhausted, trembling from residual fear, and my mouth felt desert-dry. I wanted out of there. I switched off the light and went, leaving the ladder where it was.
It was 10:00 p.m.
I really, really needed a drink. I rarely drink alcohol, but there are always exceptions; now a restorative was vital. It’s the first time I’ve ever longed for an emergency tot of tawny port. Pouring a decent measure I tossed it down in one gulp. My toes immediately noticed, and turned toasty. I chased the port with a pot of tea, thinking hard.
One mystery remained. How had BB escaped?
After a long think, I figured it out.
She’d never been IN.
Adventurous BB had been clinging happily to the mesh behind- and outside- her cage. When I’d seen her I made the image work for ‘in.’ (It never occurred to me that she could be outside it. There was no room to even get back there.)
I remembered I’d adjusted the whole cage to fit even closer to the wall before going out to fetch Blue’s bribe. BB, squeezed between bedroom wall and cage wire, with zero room to maneuver, kept nodding off. Eventually her grip loosened and she’d slid slowly down, down, down between the fireplace’s sidewall and the bedroom wall, into the cold, dark abyss, until- Plop. Her feet felt the carpet after a whisper-soft landing. Firmly wedged in, she’d decided to think about her predicament tomorrow, and yielded to sleep.
Or, I thought, more likely she was getting colder and …hypothermic…Eeee! Don’t go there!
It was after midnight before I felt collected enough to fall into bed. I hadn’t failed in my duty. I would deliver two healthy birds back to Lisa and Peter.
But I’d aged a year.
My daughter Lisa and her English husband, Peter, asked me to mind their two beloved budgies for a week; she wanted to show Peter Niagara Falls. They cherished BB and Blue. I’d never looked after, or had a clue about, avians. “Oh, how hard could it be?” I muttered as I secured their cages with seatbelts and drove them from Saginaw to Sunnybank House in Traverse City.
They gazed out the windows, enjoying the way their perches swayed. When I turned the radio off, they sang; when I dialed in classical music they froze, closed their eyes and let the melodies wash over them. Hmm, I thought. These two have taste!
After hurriedly bringing them in, in blanketed cages- it was snowy and freezing outside- I prepared the front bedroom by draping the furniture and carpet with old sheets. (Budgies poop minutely every 15 minutes, but their droppings dry quickly and are easily cleaned up.) A big triangular wood-finished electric fireplace was situated snugly in one corner, right up against the wall. I set their cages on its generous mantel.
For the first six days the birds and I got on fine. Both were delighted when I visited with treats, like fresh broccoli. They flew large, circular patterns around the room, then landed on my shoulder, or in my hair, and sang lovely songs. Four-year old BB gently groomed my eyebrows and murmured affectionately. I played with them every day for at least two hours, then left them alone in there to fly around, chat, and enjoy soft music.
Fast-forward to their last evening. I’d drive them back to Saginaw the next day.
I’d popped in around 5 and noticed BB already in her cage. Good. I closed and secured the cage door.
Obstinate Blue wouldn’t be coaxed into his cage, though. I needed a bribe.
Around 6 p.m. I popped in again waving a twig full of millet seeds, Blue’s favorite treat. To my surprise, he wasn’t perched on top of his cage. I looked inside it. No Blue. I looked at the windowsill, where both birdies often gazed outside. Nope. Baffled, I began to call. There was no answering chirp, not even from BB.
Wait a minute. That was odd. Why hadn’t BB responded? I strolled to her cage, peeked in, and gasped. NO BIRD.
I was gobsmacked. This was impossible. This was nuts. How could there be NO bird in there? It was absolutely impossible for her to get out. I unlatched the cage door and peered inside. No one was home.
This could signal a world of trouble. The house was normally kept very cool. If they’d somehow escaped and flown into the main upstairs area, or even downstairs - (IMPOSSIBLE!! I was always careful)- they could be anywhere. They could freeze to death. Tropical birds crave warmth.
Keeping the bedroom door shut I began to search. In slow motion, so as not to crush the tiny bodies, I peeked carefully under every big sheet, crawled under the beds, and examined every corner. I even checked under my shoes and scanned the ceiling. Nothing. Mounting fear made my mouth was dry enough to spit cotton. My heart thumped.
I repeated the search over and over. I called, waved the millet, and listened. Silence.
I must have re-checked BB’s cage a dozen times, still thunderstruck.
Finally, after an awful hour or so, I gathered my fear-rattled wits and made a plan.
1. Search the second story. (It was a vast area, cold and dark now, well after 7 o’clock.)
2. Do another search of the bedroom with an LED flashlight.
3. Bring in a tall ladder to inspect the bedroom’s high ceiling and corners. I possessed only one eye; surely it could spot two birds. But it had fooled me before…
4. You’re worn out. It’s very late for you. Give up, and go to bed. (Yeah, right. No chance of that.)
I gave up on number 1 as soon as I went into the hall. Hopeless.
The flashlight search yielded only startled under-bed dust bunnies.
I positioned the big ladder I dragged in from the garage, and climbed up to the white fan. I’d looked up at it a hundred times, and seen nothing... I moved the fan blades gently. Oh, Lord! A long, blue-feathered tail hung limply over a blade edge. At once horrified and hopeful, I touched it. No response. Sick at heart, I climbed higher.
And there was the rest of him. Absolutely still. I dangled the millet twig by his beak and chirped his song. Eventually, one eye opened…Suddenly, I fully understood.
NOT dead! Deeply asleep! That wretched bird was roosting!
Though I’d lowered the shades at five-ish, the room was still brightly lit. But bright light didn’t matter a fig. Blue had known what time it was.
After much coaxing, he climbed sleepily onto my finger, eyes shut. Carefully backing down the ladder, praying he wouldn’t fly, I eased him onto his cage perch, and secured the door with a thankful gasp.
It’s impossible to describe how relieved I was.
But - where was BB? Could this Houdini possibly be behind the electric fireplace? Not even a mouse could squeeze into that space…
I snatched the big flashlight, leaned forward and shined it between one wall and the fireplace sidewall.
Nothing.
BUT, wedged in on the other side, was 5 oz. BB, asleep. I dangled the millet twig, called, and offered my finger. She struggled to rouse and move, but couldn’t gain purchase in that narrow canyon with her one clawed foot. (Her other foot had been amputated last year due to an accident.) I stuck my finger deeper into the crack---and, after a heroic struggle, she managed to position herself on its tip. Still on my knees, groaning with effort, I managed to shift the big fireplace a quarter-inch, and eased her out. Was a wing broken? BB hates to be handled, so I only looked. They were tidily folded, and seemed fine. Carefully I set her onto her perch, let her nibble a few seeds, shut the door and lowered her cage blanket.
I was absolutely exhausted, trembling from residual fear, and my mouth felt desert-dry. I wanted out of there. I switched off the light and went, leaving the ladder where it was.
It was 10:00 p.m.
I really, really needed a drink. I rarely drink alcohol, but there are always exceptions; now a restorative was vital. It’s the first time I’ve ever longed for an emergency tot of tawny port. Pouring a decent measure I tossed it down in one gulp. My toes immediately noticed, and turned toasty. I chased the port with a pot of tea, thinking hard.
One mystery remained. How had BB escaped?
After a long think, I figured it out.
She’d never been IN.
Adventurous BB had been clinging happily to the mesh behind- and outside- her cage. When I’d seen her I made the image work for ‘in.’ (It never occurred to me that she could be outside it. There was no room to even get back there.)
I remembered I’d adjusted the whole cage to fit even closer to the wall before going out to fetch Blue’s bribe. BB, squeezed between bedroom wall and cage wire, with zero room to maneuver, kept nodding off. Eventually her grip loosened and she’d slid slowly down, down, down between the fireplace’s sidewall and the bedroom wall, into the cold, dark abyss, until- Plop. Her feet felt the carpet after a whisper-soft landing. Firmly wedged in, she’d decided to think about her predicament tomorrow, and yielded to sleep.
Or, I thought, more likely she was getting colder and …hypothermic…Eeee! Don’t go there!
It was after midnight before I felt collected enough to fall into bed. I hadn’t failed in my duty. I would deliver two healthy birds back to Lisa and Peter.
But I’d aged a year.