Mr. Snagglebeak Gets Up to Mischief

With a view to keeping Mr. Snagglebeak's feet infection-free while they're healing, I've been advised to wash them every day, and rub in antiseptic cream. Sounds simple, doesn't it? Catch bird; dip feet; scrubbety-scrub; Bob's your uncle. You'd think, wouldn't you? Well, this is me trying to catch a poor, helpless injured bird:

"Right. Good burd. Stay right there, right where you are. Good Mr. Snagglebeak. Okay, just a little--yikes!"

Mr. Snagglebeak is now on my head. Somehow, he's managed to squirt out of my hand, flap up my sleeve, and install himself in the nearest available bird's nest. Bloody hell. I'd pick him off, but I've got more pressing concerns at the moment: namely, the other three birds. My arm's got stuck in the cage, owing to an inopportune combination of loose-knit cardigan and pokey door-bits. Surprisingly enough, the birds aren't sympathetic to my plight. They think I'm invading for the fun of it, and have launched an enthusiastic counter-strike. For such tiny birds, they're awfully swift with their beaks. They're not just pecking, either--they're gnawing my fingers like sticks of rock candy. I, not wanting to hurt them, am taking it like a fool.

So, here's the situation: I've got one bird on my head, and three others doing their best to deglove my hand. If I make any sudden movements, I'll frighten all four birds. Mr. Snagglebeak will fly into a window and die, and his little friends will eat my hand in revenge. Bit of a sticky wicket, this.

"Right, you burds," I go, in my most authoritative voice--"right, you burds: I'm going to use my right hand now (see? see?)--I'm going to use my right hand, and very gently, very carefully, disentangle my left cardigan sleeve from the cage." The birds regard me dubiously. They're not buying it for a second. On my head, Mr. Snagglebeak twitches his tail. "And you up there," I add, panicking a little--"no shiting!" In twenty-odd years of urban life, I've never had a bird shite on my head. My luck can't run out now, not like this. Not when I'm doing a bird a favour!

"Bik-bik phweeeeeee!" scolds Mr. Snagglebeak. He sounds kind of indignant. I choose to interpret this as "I wasn't! Ey, I'm a parakeet, not a seagull!"

And that was just the start of my pain. I reclaimed my arm eventually, with minimal damage to my cardigan, but it was too late. My no-shite streak was over. Mr. Snagglebeak had used my head, my back, and the collar of my shirt as a toilet. Prolific wee blighter.

Thus, bedraggled and beshitted, I embarked on my mission of mercy. I wrapped Mr. Snagglebeak in a facecloth, with his feet sticking out one end and his head at the other. He looked a lot like a mouldy sausage roll. I would've laughed, but he'd dug that great snaggly beak of his into my thumb, and wasn't letting go.

"Okay," I told him, "you bite all you want--but you're still having your feet dunked. Oh, yes. Warm, soapy water. Isn't it lovely? Doesn't that feel better? Isn't it nice to soak your dogs? You know, people pay hundreds of dollars for foot-soaking machines. You might show a little gratitude. All this is yours free of charge. Ha! See? Looking nicer already. Just got to rinse, now, and then you'll go back to your friends. Tomorrow, I'm washing your face, too. You're filthy. Crusty. Horrible. Sod washing you--I'm taking you to a burd groomer. I'm having your beak trimmed, your nails clipped, and your face introduced to a Brillie pad. Ha!" I grinned triumphantly. While that silly bird was distracted by my monologue, I'd finished with his feet.

With that out of the way, I got online and hunted up a bargain on a flight-cage, suitable for up to eight parakeets. I'd wanted to buy one locally, so I could get the little guys into more appropriate accommodations right away, but there wasn't anything nice in my price-range. A cuttlefish has been procured, though. That's a start. Poor things don't seem to know what to do with it yet, but I expect they'll catch on soon enough.

The sun peeked out briefly this afternoon, and I took advantage of the light to have a good look at all four birds. They all show minor signs of stress (thinned-out feathers on their chests and bellies, missing tail-feathers, and so forth), but three of them are essentially healthy. I couldn't see any mites or abscesses. Mr. Snagglebeak, on the other hand, is showing some serious wear and tear. He's picked bare patches into his belly-plumage, and his beak looks brittle and misshapen. (He's still able to eat, but if he doesn't get a trim soon, he'll start having problems.) As for his feet, they're all twisted and raw. He needs more space. The other birds are crowding him, shoving him off the perch. Space, exercise, clean feet, and a better diet--that's the ticket.

As for the folks who let him get into such a condition--

People who buy pets and don't look after them properly ought to--

The exotic pet trade is--

Sod it. I can't finish any of these thoughts without cussing up the page. On a more cheerful note, seeing as Mr. Snagglebeak's gone and named himself, I'll have to give proper names to the other ones, too. Can't very well have Birds A, B, and C, and Mr. Snagglebeak. That just sounds silly. Maybe Ugly, Noisy, and Smelly. Or--or Blue, Green, and Also-Green. Curse, Hex, and Malediction. Klaxon, Kazoo, and Foghorn.

...&*%$ burds!