some measure of dread at what I might discover. In all caps, writtenbeneath his name and breed: OUT during the day. Idiot! In the event that Sterling slipped past his broom and attacked, Bonsai would fly to the towel hutch in the hall where he could hide from the larger, stronger bird.
I walked into the hall by the downstairs bathroom and flipped on the light. Sure enough, there was a telltale gray feather in the topmost stack of towels from the last time Bonsai had sought refuge there.
Without flight from his cage, poor Bonsai was a sitting duck. Sterling had grabbed him through the bars of the cage and pinned him there on the other side of the wire, mauling him repeatedly. Inside his cage, Bonsai wasnât safe. He was defenseless.
And I was screwed.
âIâm sorry, little buddy,â I said to Bonsai. He continued to stare, unblinking. I walked back to Sterlingâs cage, maneuvering around the broom.
âYouâre an asshole.â He fluffed his feathers and said nothing. âNo toast for you tomorrow.â
If there was any hint of a silver lining to Bonsaiâs injury, it was that I didnât have to shower with him. In the binder notes, I was instructed to take him into the shower with me and deflect some of the spray from the showerhead over his feathers. Far stranger than sleeping with dogs, showering with a parrot felt complicated in all sorts of stressful ways. How would I know what was enough, or too much, water? I didnât want to inadvertently waterboard the poor thing. On a very basic level, was it weird that I felt really . . . weird about being naked in the shower with a bird? However obvious this process might have seemed to Bev, it wasnât to me.
Now that Bonsai was coned and bandaged, I couldâve baggedhis leg securely against the water and temporarily removed his cone. But, no. Iâd already broken Bonsai once; I couldnât bear to risk doing it again.
Bev called the next day as I was coming back into the house from the dogsâ morning walk. My heart was in my throat, fully expecting some combination of rage and ridicule at my stupidity. I felt certain that Iâd be responsible for the bill, too, which was totally fair.
Bev was thankful for what Iâd done for Bonsai and utterly unfazed by the astronomical cost of the vet bill. Even after sheâd said her part, I continued to explain my logic, assuming Bonsai was safe from Sterling in his cage and never realizing that the opposite could be true. Though I had read and reread the notes, my certainty that the cage was impregnable mustâve played tricks on my eyes and caused me to elide the obvious instructions.
âOf course I understand,â she said. âJust keep Sterling and Bonsai caged until I am home.â Either Bermuda was a magically restorative and calming place, and I had it to thank for the reprieve from a $1,200 punishment, or else braless Bev of the tea and the yoga really was that Zen and benevolent.
In my great relief and infinite kindness, I relented and fed Sterling his toast after all. Even standing at attention in the kitchen between Sterlingâs and Bonsaiâs cages, I wasnât taking any chances, not even allowing him to enjoy his breakfast in freedom. He took umbrage at being fed his toast while locked up, instead of on his usual cage-top perch.
âSorry, fella,â I said as I latched his cage after refreshing his water bowl. âYou brought this on yourself.â
Poor Bonsai couldnât manage his usual feeding routine with the unwieldy cone around his neck. He maneuvered well enoughto reach his pellets, water, and fruit and vegetables, but the cone prevented him from holding his peanuts close enough to his beak for gnawing in the manner he was accustomed. I fed him the nuts, stripped of their shells, and a couple pistachios as an extra treat. Sure, Iâm anthropomorphizing, but his resentment felt palpable. As he snatched each nut from
Learning to Kill: Stories