Sleeps with Dogs by Lindsey Grant Read Free Book Online

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 wasn’t safe. He was defenseless.
    And I was screwed.
    â€œI’m sorry, little buddy,” I said to Bonsai. He continued to stare, unblinking. I walked back to Sterling’s cage, maneuvering around the broom.
    â€œYou’re an asshole.” He fluffed his feathers and said nothing. “No toast for you tomorrow.”
    If there was any hint of a silver lining to Bonsai’s injury, it was that I didn’t 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 didn’t 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 wasn’t to me.
    Now that Bonsai was coned and bandaged, I could’ve baggedhis leg securely against the water and temporarily removed his cone. But, no. I’d already broken Bonsai once; I couldn’t bear to risk doing it again.
    Bev called the next day as I was coming back into the house from the dogs’ morning walk. My heart was in my throat, fully expecting some combination of rage and ridicule at my stupidity. I felt certain that I’d be responsible for the bill, too, which was totally fair.
    Bev was thankful for what I’d done for Bonsai and utterly unfazed by the astronomical cost of the vet bill. Even after she’d 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 must’ve played tricks on my eyes and caused me to elide the obvious instructions.
    â€œOf course I understand,” she said. “Just keep Sterling and Bonsai caged until I am home.” 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 Sterling’s and Bonsai’s cages, I wasn’t 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.
    â€œSorry, fella,” I said as I latched his cage after refreshing his water bowl. “You brought this on yourself.”
    Poor Bonsai couldn’t 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, I’m anthropomorphizing, but his resentment felt palpable. As he snatched each nut from