2002: I'm walking down Rockville Pike to my grandparents' house. I've just gotten off the metro at White Flint station. Rockville Pike/355 is the main thoroughfare north from D.C. up through Montgomery County and into the Maryland suburbs. There is an office park with some greenery and short trees lining the traffic-congested strip that is home to offices buildings, auto dealerships and fast-food joints. I'm walking along minding my business, my eyes were probably down toward the ground as cars were coming at me, giving me the pedestrian-look-down they sometimes give. It is muggy, the smell of exhaust hovers in a pasty, translucent sky.
I spot a little green thing moving, I barely register it, almost miss it entirely. A lizard? No, a little bird. An obviously weak, helpless little thing I recognize as a parakeet. A budgie! Oddly, it is hopping, almost limping in the direction of the road, through the grass under the sparse shade. I kneel down and consider the little guy, block his path to the road. I pity the poor parakeet, I need to get him some help, I think to myself. Notifying the Human Society - this is the first thing that comes to mind, as he seems so weak, possibly - probably near death. Surely he would not survive much longer out here. Probably wouldn't make it the night.
He is still going, however, tiny black, beety eyes sparkle some intelligence and perhaps fatigue - if I could divine as much. He was regal looking - a tall forehead, hooked beak tucked primly into his cheek feathers, and intelligent, pensive, though anxious, eyes. An English parakeet - separate, more-refined breed of budgie carefully bred over the years and favored by the British. There are office buildings and apartment blocks scattered along the Pike, I look up at the structure towering nearby and consider perhaps that the bird escaped out of one of those windows. It's hard to say how long he might have been out there. Probably not long, as he was in such a fragile, weak state that any sort of creature with a predatory inclination would have gobbled him up.
I cup him in my hand, thinking about what to do. I decide to avert all of the outside dangers here near the road and slip him into my backpack. I carry it gently in front of me, making sure to leave it partly unzipped to give him air. I take out my phone and call mom, tell her.
She and I both love animals. We have a weakness for any small or baby pet, we both love dogs and dote on our Begian sheepdog, Conree. She agrees to drive down from my grandparents' in Gaithersburg and pick me up.
So she arrives and I hop in, open up my bag and out pops the little green and yellow and white bird!
Mom is fairly tickled. At this point I haven't considered the next step, but she intimates that we ought to take him home. She told me later that she had kept parakeets as a child, her mother/ my grandmother always loved wild birds -bluebirds were her favorite - and was an avid bird-watcher.
I'm hungry and budgie needs some water, so we swing into the McDonald's near White Flint station. I remember this most fondly about that day - I have Big Bird (we settle on this name later on when we find that he talks and enjoys spouting the name "Big Bird" in a comical, exclamatory tone that always elicited laughter from my mom) cupped in my lap along with french fries and a Big Mac - rather presumptuously, ravenously - as he is evidently famished - hops up my arms and begins nibbling on a french fry. I am trying to give him a little sip of ice water, but instead he goes for my Coke! He takes little bites of the brown liquid that has seeped up above the lid of the cup! This is one of my fondest memories of Big Bird.
We soon discover, after he has recovered and regained his strength, that he's got quite a knack for mimicry. He blabbers and warbles on in garbled English, not unlike an ill-received radio station. Mom and I get a kick out of this when we discover his this cross-species linguistic talent of his. And as I mentioned, he had arrived with an affinity for saying, "That's Big Bird." And so hence the name. We surmised that this may have been the name given by his previous owners. Before too long, he is mimicking sounds and speech from us! When I come in each day, for example, I would often whistle a little catcall to him - soon he would anticipate this and whistle the same little tune to me! I whistle back and he likewise, with perfect mimicry. Very cute. And alas, I say "was" because Big Bird died not long before I moved to Seattle.
He had become quite thin, emaciated at times; in fact his health seemed fragile for the entire two and a half years I had him. He would have sick spells and be lethargic and unresponsive for a week or two, but he did recover again and again. I devised a hydrotherapy for him - whenever I'd shower I would cart him in with me on my shoulder and he would perch atop the cabinet for an hour, door shut / fan off, soaking up the warmth and humidity. He truly loved that.
As a matter of fact, he loved taking baths too! A sucker for lukewarm water. Big Bird had a Pavlovian response to the sound of a tap running - Often he'd whistle to me if I was in the bathroom, soliciting a ride to the basin. He needed the tap ever so gentle and warm - needed it just so - and he'd flap his wings and boogie-down his hindfeathers into the bath. He could sit in his bath, tap flowing, for a half-an-hour! It was pretty adorable. Kept his plumage nice and clean, too.
Eventually, not long before I left for Seattle, I awoke one morning to find him at the bottom of his cage, breathing heavily, near-death, no longer perched on his little perch below his favorite mirror. Several more days of this and he expired. Mom and I buried him in the backyard. We weren't so sad, as we could see it coming, in fact I think we were surprised he had lasted so long - a good 3 1/2 years with us and however-long with his previous owner.
And so Big Bird sparked in me a love of birds, and upon reaching Seattle, I sought out a budgie breeder from Bremerton whom my niece, who works at Animal Talk in Fremont, knew of and recommended to me. I got two two-month old fledgling budgies, sky blue and white. However, as I was staying with my sister for several months last year, I soon had to turn them over to my niece (my sister Sarah has two cats, two rather incompatible species if there ever were). I still see them fairly often, though, and they are in Fremont in my relatives' house in a nice big cage together!
One other little anecdote about Big Bird - my mother once said he was like an angel - a guardian angel perched on my shoulder who had arrived in my life during a difficult and transitional time. Sent from heaven! That might sound corny, but it always rang true for me. He was an angel - a whip-smart little sentient being, my little "man", as I affectionately referred to him.
- d.g.w. 7/9/07
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