The Four-Packbawky Salute

I loathe the exotic pet trade. It always leads to the same three things: miserable animals, frustrated owners, and, at the end of it all, a four-packbawky salute for Socar.

Let me set the scene: it's about three o'clock in the afternoon, and all's quiet in the Rat's Nest. The laundry is finished. The dishes are all squared away. Rats A and B are tangled up in their favourite corner, sleeping off a feast of raisins and banana slices. As for me, I'm sprawled out on the couch, listening to Norma. There's a cold cloth on my face, a hot water bottle on my feet, and absolutely nothing on my mind. I am, for the first time in days, completely comfortable. My eyes don't hurt. My ears don't hurt. My feet, hands, and face don't hurt. I'm breathing slowly and shallowly, not quite asleep, but not quite awake, either. And, best of all, the opera's just getting to my favourite part.

"Oh! di qual sei tu vittima," I mouth, not wanting to mess up the music with my croaky-crow voice--"oh! di qual sei tu vittima, crudo e funesto inganno...." This bit right here, it's bloody inspired. The music of heaven, sort of thing. It's nearly got me, a lifelong atheist, on my knees praising God. It starts out all quiet and ethereal, with just one voice--then, a second chimes in, and a third, till the whole thing comes together in a glorious finale.

"Fonte d'eterne lagrime," I whisper--and that's when it happens, the four-packbawky salute. "Fonte d'eterne lagrime--"

"BRAWK! BRAWK! BOKITA-BOKITA-BRAAAAWWWWK! Kieeeeee! Bik! Bik! Fweeeeeee!"

"Come il mio cor deluse, l'uccello il mio canto tradì*," I finish, feeling rather bitter.

"Bokita-foooooooooooo!" go the birds, bobbing their heads amiably in my general direction.

Why is my house full of birds, all of a sudden? Good question, that. See, there's this sign on my forehead, and--I mean, when you see someone trying to give away animals for free--well, what can you do? People don't value things they get for free. They don't cherish them. If I hadn't taken the birds, some horrible cunt might have done. Poor sods could've ended up in a packbawky prostitution ring, or plucked for feather dusters. A hungry midget could've had them for Christmas dinner. You just never know. These folks I got 'em off, they hardly seemed the discriminating type:

I didn't realise the bird people would be by so early, and have consequently just gotten out of bed. My hair's puffed up like a Brillie pad, and I've still got on my pajama top. As icing on the cake, I'm in my bare feet. I grin foolishly. "You're the ones with the budgies, what?"

"Yup. Here you go." And they just hand me the birds. They don't even get my last name. I could be anyone at all.

"Thanks. Ey, that one's bleeding."

"Yeah. He burned his feet on a radiator a couple of months back. Probably won't last too much longer."

"I see."

I peer in at him with the bloody feet. No wonder he hasn't been doing so well. Quite apart from his injury, his beak's so overgrown it's practically poking him in the chest. His feet are all raw and manky and red on the bottoms. He's standing on a wooden perch that looks like it hasn't been washed since--which looks like it hasn't been washed. There's a wee bloody bit over his cere, like another bird bit him in the face. He probably won't last much longer, at this rate: he's much smaller than the other birds, and withered away, besides. He can't be getting enough food, with that snaggly beak of his. I'll have it trimmed, of course, but it should've been done ages ago. Christ, there isn't even a cuttlefish. Note to self: buy a cuttlefish.

"What are they called?" I go, putting on my friendly face.

"They haven't got names. We just call 'em 'the budgies.'"

"Right you are. I'll think of names later." (Bugger! Birds A, B, C, and D, then?)

First, though, I must do something about this cage. It's not even the size of the ratcage. You can't have four birds in a tiny box like that, even if they're not in it all the time. It's like four people living in a toilet cubicle. They go to work, they come back, but when all's said and done, they eat, sleep, shite, and mingle in a four-by-six cell with a bog smell. Can't have that, here. Can't have that at all.

There's two males and two females. The males are both those greeny-bluey ones you get, with the yellow heads--except one of them (the one with the bum feet) has gone all this faded way. Or maybe those are his proper colours. You'd have to ask someone who knows about budgies, which I don't. One of the females is greeny-bluey, as well, and the other is mostly white. She's got a flush of blue on her belly, and black ticks down her back. Rather pretty, that one.

They're quiet most of the time, but appear prone to little bursts of enthusiasm, generally related to music or human voices. Mr. Snagglebeak, over there, he doesn't chime in terribly often. How does one cheer up an ailing bird? I'll have him down the vet's once the holidays are over. Maybe I'll get some suggestions, there. In the meantime, maybe replacing the cage, washing his feet, and buying a cuttlefish will get him peeping more often.

Poor wee birds. I'm secretly growing fond of them, already.

* "As he betrayed my heart, that bird has betrayed my song!" (The actual line goes "Come il mio cor deluse, l'empio il tuo core tradì!"--but had the librettist been loused, as I am, with budgerigars, things might've turned out differently.)