Swept from the corners of my mind:
My foster sister calls me “Critter Mama”. I was the kid fascinated with any animal I came across. I amassed quite a menagerie growing up, which only expanded when I married a farmer with the same attitude towards pets. Our children weren’t quite as intense, but they both gathered pets as well. At one point I recall having 2 dozen horses, cattle, a donkey, 2 llamas (named ‘Yamma Llama Ding Dong’ and ‘Bop She Bop She Bop’), sheep, goats, pigs, Guinea fowl, Guinea pigs, cats, dogs, a pheasant, a pot-bellied pig-hermit, and several breeds of rabbits. That may have been when I acquired my favourite bearded dragon, Sir Gino. I also had a 60-gallon tank of tropical fish taking up a chunk of the living room.
Eventually, critters were sold, passed or were given away, the kids left home, and it was just my husband and I rattling around in our house with a few dogs, and cats, a chameleon, and the fish, with livestock still outside. By the late 20-teens it was quite civilized—an old man, an ambiguously-aged woman, and a couple of ordinary house pets. That’s when I re-entered a bird phase. We had raised canaries previously, but I became enamoured with small parrots.
About ten years ago I got a sweet young Pionus (they smell like cotton candy!), but a dog we were sitting murdered him. I wanted to replace him, but still didn’t know much about parrots. Then one day my husband and I had a spat and I decided to cool off by driving to Saskatoon. While there I purchased a 10-year-old Senegal parrot and its cage (because why not be impulsive with a live being?) The bright-colored little tree-demon hung upside down next to me and screamed the whole 90 minutes to home.
I knew nothing about Sennies but learned that they are 7-ounce packages of pure passion. Male and females are indistinguishable with bright green tailcoats, yellow vests and gray heads. If they like you, they will die for you. If they don’t like you, they’d like to kill you. This one came with the name “Turbo”, but the seller had thought it may be a girl, so I decided to name her Chicky, as that is what her scream sounded like on the long drive home. “Chicky!! Chickyyy! CHICKYYYYY!” Our daughter was unimpressed, as that was my nickname for her, and she suggested I may have been trying to replace her since she had married and moved away. Said daughter may have been correct.
Eventually, Chicky grew to care for my husband, but that’s where her circle ended. She tolerates my daughter and one niece but loathes my son. I lock her in the cage when he is visiting because she will fly at the 6’2” lumberjack-type and try to peck holes in his head. If she is unable to attack, she will still scream death threats unless I cover her cage. She allows the other house pets (dogs and cats) to live, but if she uncaged she will attack anything within 3 feet of me. I had a 165-pound Newfoundland that would just put his head down and slink away if she caught his eye, determined not to relive past attacks. She is, as they say, a force to be reckoned with.
After my husband died, Chicky and I grew even closer. Her strong emotions never fail to amuse me, and she is the first critter I talk to when I enter the house. I can’t even go to the next room without her calling for me, and she will often fly directly to me if I call her.
One of the other critters is Feist, a Rat Terrier. Rat Terriers are like watered down Jack Russells; thankfully their obsessions aren’t quite as intense as their bigger cousins. But Feist has two habits that drive me to distraction. Whenever she hears the car drive out of the yard, she attempts to upend the garbage can. She also likes pulling out the bottom trays of the bird cages. Until recently she focused on the large parrot (a Congo African Gray in a 6’ by 6’ unit), but recently she taught herself to reach above her head to tug open the bottom tray of Chicky’s cage.
Last week I meandered home enjoying the sunshine. I rounded the corner to greet the birds only to find that Feist had removed not only the bottom trays of both cages, but the bottom grate of Chicky’s cage as well. Her cage was empty, who knows for how long? My heart dropped and I peered closer to see if she was just tucked up in a corner. No Chicky. But the two cats that have me keeping her caged meandered into sight. One is summer-feral, living on what he catches on his trips away, and the other has a prey drive almost as strong as her determination to stay in the house. Both have been much too interested in my feathered friend. Fearing the worse I started calling for Chicky again and again as I tore through all 8 rooms, including the closet. I retraced my steps, slower, calling louder.
I checked on curtain rods, in cupboards, and even wiggled down to the crawl space in search of a spray of blood-splattered green feathers. Nothing. Not a pin feather. Glaring at the cats I continued the search for Chicky’s remains. Tears blurring my vision I texted my kids the events, stymied that I could not find the remains.
Maybe she was injured and hiding somewhere? But where? I’d checked the whole house. I went back through the house and spied my dresser. An old waterfall style, it had a tiny gap underneath that Chicky relished wiggling through. Maybe she’d gone to ground there? Using my cell’s flashlight, I squinted under the dresser, but all that was visible was a dust bunny. Carefully I pulled it out from the wall, afraid I would smush her remains. I saw a feather. Then the sassy bird appeared, acting like I was at fault for her location. She was whole, happy, and proud of herself, even trying to attack the cats watching the rescue. I scooped her up and locked her up with clips on the trays and headed for the couch. This Mama loves her critters, but I don’t always like them!
