Fat Girls and Lawn Chairs by Cheryl Peck Read Free Book Online Page B

She and I both have
     reached an age when we must stop and consider whether or not we can afford our infant house pets on our Social Security during
     their old age. “However,” I reminded her, “that may not be a problem in my house.”
    “That’s right,” she remembered immediately. “And exactly how do you plan to manage a bird around … you-know-who?”
    I have never owned a bird. Never even considered one. When I was quite young my great-grandmother kept a parakeet named Joey.
     Joey had a working vocabulary that included “peetie peetie peetie Pete” (she imagined he was infatuated with a cardinal who
     lived in the hedge), “dirty bird,” and a charming repertoire of ear-splitting whistles. I remember two things about this bird:
     (1) whenever I dropped my guard, he strafed me and flew away with toesful of my hair, and (2) she trained him to hop around
     on her chest and kiss her on the lips on a regular basis. Joey never seemed to mind this, and, as far as I could tell, quite
     willingly obliged. Gram had a nasty habit of grabbing unwary great-grandchildren and demanding the same performance from them.
     I hated it. I didn’t have a great deal of respect for the bird. Also, I believe the little buzzard bit me.
    I was utterly bird-free until one evening not that long ago when I accidentally strayed into a pet store on my way home from
     a balanced, home-cooked feast at Burger King. The craze in my office of late had been for dwarf hamsters, and I thought I
     might visit one and compose a list of reasons why I didn’t need one. I was successful. On the way out of the store I passed
     something called a “playpen,” and playing on the playpen was a small parrot-like bird with a tiny crest, a long tail, clipped
     wings, and no patience whatsoever with human cuteness. He amused himself, therefore, by poising himself on the edge of the
     “playpen,” fluttering his wings madly and leaping to the ground—which caused him to sort of … drift … to the floor. Once there,
     he tucked his wings behind his back, leaned forward, and, looking for all the world like a tiny Charlie Chaplin, took off
     on his own walking tours of the store.
    I was enchanted.
    I wanted one.
    I alerted the store clerk to the fact that one of his $70 birds was walking to Indiana and the clerk smiled at me with the
     patience and endurance of a young man who might actually have paid $70 out of a store clerk’s salary for the privilege of
     stomping Mr. Chaplin into the carpet. He said, “Really?”
    I could see that not only did I wish to own Mr. Chaplin, he needed me.
    I visualized Mr. Chaplin moving into my house, escaping from his open cage onto the floor where he would tuck his wings behind
     his back, lean forward, and march resolutely toward whatever adventure might await him.
    In my visualization I then heard a scream of terror, a streak of orange (or black, or black and white) as Mr. Chaplin became
     a very expensive cat treat—raw squab, perhaps, or Cornish cockatiel—for the Intrepid Hunter.
    My macho housemate, Sir Babycakes, has never been outdoors and has single-handedly purged my house of killer flies, poisonous
     gnats and that bane of all feline existence, invisimites. He has stalked and furiously killed nail holes. Something that I
     can’t even see lives inside the living room lampshades, appearing to mere mortals as nothing but dust motes, but the mighty
     Baby-cakes is not fooled. He purges those shades of demons nightly, never shirking, never wincing, and only occasionally howling
     with rage and frustration when the invisimites burn his tender noseflesh, or toast a whisker in their own defense.
    When my sister closed her quilt store she gave me the stuffed bunny that had hung for years over the cash register. I had
     often admired it, and she had no further use for it. I brought it home and hung it in the corner of my living room where,
     if I had one, I might hang a bird cage. It looked like a bunny to me.