Posted by Zoom! on January 27, 2012, at 11:22 am |
I have new next-door-neighbours again. In the five years I’ve been here, I’ve had five different sets of people living on the other side of my east wall. The most exciting set was the 23-year-old couple with the five kids (six, now). The last set was several young men who liked to party. Two of them were okay, but the third got very loud and aggressive whenever he drank, which was whenever he got the chance. Sometimes he’d go out on the porch and scream obscenities in the middle of the night. That was annoying.
The new ones like to party too. They partied all night Tuesday and all night Thursday. Never went to bed. They woke me up a few times during the night but it just sounded like they were having a good time, no fighting. The crazy thing is they appear to actually go to work the next morning.
That’s youth for you. GC and I can’t even stay up till midnight on New Year’s Eve and these guys can party all night long and then go to work in the morning.
Speaking of youth…I was at Value Village on Tuesday night, buying second-hand toys for the birds. Simon loves chewing the arms and legs off little plastic people.
The cashier rang up my order.
“Nine dollars even,” she said. “With the discount, it’s $7.20.”
“The discount?” I asked obtusely.
“Senior’s discount every Tuessday,” she said. “Twenty percent off.”
“I’ll take it,” I said, figuring the insult alone was worth $1.80.
Out in the parking lot, I asked GC if I look like a senior.
“She’s a teenager,” he said. “To her, 50, 60, 70, it all looks the same. Old.”
Yeah, I guess that’s true. Just like 90, 100 and 110 all look the same to me. Old.
I was waiting for the bus the other day with an old man and he made me guess how old he was. I guessed 67, just to be on the safe side. Turns out he’s 81. He’s looking for a new wife. He divorced the first one after 47 years of marriage. He met the second one on the Internet and she divorced him after a year. I pointed out that the ratio of women to men in his age group greatly favours men.
But it turns out he’s not actually looking in his own age group.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I’m not looking for a 25-year-old, either.” But then he contemplated that assertion, and added “Though I wouldn’t mind that.”
Really?? Why would an 81-year-old man want a 25-year-old woman? Wouldn’t it just make him feel ridiculous?
I’ve been a little scattered lately. I arrived home from work on Monday to the sound of Kazoo cackling in the dark. The whole time I was taking my boots and jacket and stuff off, she kept saying “Hello,” and laughing, and I kept saying hello and laughing back. As soon as I got my stuff off, I went to let her out of her cage. But she wasn’t in her cage! And the door was wide open!
Gasp! I had forgotten to close her door in the morning. Kazoo burst out laughing from somewhere above me. Then she said “Bad bad bad bad bad bad!” and laughed some more. She was up on top of the Ikea Billy bookcase she is so fond of eating. She never gets more than a few bites in before I climb up there and fetch her down. But she had just had 10 uninterrupted hours of bookcase-eating bliss! And book-eating bliss! And complete freedom to do whatever she wanted!
She actually did surprisingly little damage, all things considered. She just ate some bookcase, and some books, and some cardboard magazine holders. Fortunately both Duncan and Rosie were over at GC’s house with him, so she didn’t have to fend off any predators.
The other scattered thing I did was show up 24 hours early for a lunch date with my friend Kindred, who is visiting from Calgary. So I ended up eating lunch by myself and eavesdropping on two women who were complaining about their boyfriends.
“He won’t vacuum or dust or scrub or anything,” said one. “But he used to have this job straightening shelves at the grocery store, so he’s obsessive about labels facing frontward. He’s always straightening cans and bottles, and he thinks this counts as tidying up and helping with the housework!”
Then the other one complained about how her guy thinks it’s okay just to spray the shower with shower-cleaning spray while he’s taking a shower, and then let the steam clean it.
After that they complained about how their guys weren’t ambitious enough and weren’t interested in bettering themselves or getting ahead. Then they agreed that their guys would have to grow up before they could marry them.
Oboe update: He’s feeling much better. His breathing is better. He’s got his chirp and his personality back! I’ve stopped hand-feeding him because he’s eating well on his own now. And he’s gained a gram! He was stretching and flapping both wings today, so maybe he’ll even be able to fly again someday. (I’m not counting on that one, though.)
Yesterday morning I was walking to work along Gladstone Avenue when all of a sudden a dead bird came hurtling out of the sky and crashed head first into a snowbank right in front of me. It was a pigeon: I could tell by its little pink feet sticking out of the snow bank.
Wiki Answers says it’s a sign: “That means a near death of you, a family member or friend or someone close to you.”
Not only that, but I looked up my Chinese horoscope because it’s the Chinese New Year, and it told me to be very careful because I’m extra susceptible to bodily injury and ill health this year. It also says I’m going to have a bad year financially, romantically and professionally. Keep a low profile, it says. Try not to make too many mistakes.
I know there are people out there wondering why anyone would spend twelve hundred bucks to save the life of a bird that could be replaced for $75. It’s a reasonable question. Reasonable enough, in fact, that I asked it of myself several times last week.
If Oboe died, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t shell out $75 for another lovebird because, let’s face it, lovebirds are annoying. Oboe’s a brat. He bites my nose. He poops in my hair. He squawks in my ear. He wrecks my stuff. He taunts my cat.
Oboe the Lovebird and Simon the African Grey
But he gives me kisses. He nibbles the tears off my face when I cry. He runs up and down my body in the bathtub. He splashes and plays in my bathwater. He sits on top of my computer screen and puffs his little green chest out and squawks at me with pure enthusiasm.
I love how exuberant he is, how joyfully he lives his life. I love watching him practice his extraordinary flying skills. I even love watching him eat. If there is something in his bowl he doesn’t want, he doesn’t just nudge it aside like the bigger birds do – he ejects it with such vigor it ricochets around his cage.
I love how confident and smart and funny he is. I love how he comes to me for cuddles. I love tucking him in at night and uncovering him in the morning.
Simon and Oboe
I adore his stubborn, cheerfully obnoxious personality. Oboe has a wicked case of Oppositional Defiance Disorder. If I want him to do something, I either have to convince him it was his idea, or I have to very skillfully bribe him, or I have to convincingly pretend I don’t care one way or the other.
I remembered all these things last week as the vet bills kept mounting and I kept handing over my credit card.
That's Oboe in the middle
I remembered watching him hatch. I remembered hand-feeding him as a scrawny little naked baby bird. I remembered how lonely he was when his big brother and sister learned how to fly before he did, so I brought him downstairs and he helped me make a pizza. I remembered watching him learn to fly. And I remembered teaching him to come when I called him (but only if he felt like it, of course).
Most of all, I remembered the time he flew away and enjoyed an hour of freedom, flying around the neighbourhood, perching in trees, chattering with the wild birds. And then he flew down and landed in my hair and let me bring him home.
So, when he was injured and at the vet’s and his brave little heart was pounding in his little green chest, I had no choice but to be philosophical about the money. It’s only money, I told myself. And I meant it.
But I do wish it weren’t so much money. It cost way more than I was bracing myself for, and I’ll be digging into my RRSP to pay for it. Coincidentally, there was an article in the Citizen last week about an increasing number of people giving up their pets because they can’t afford the vet bills. I also came across this eye-opening story in the Washington Post: Pets, Vets and Debts, in which a renegade vet urges people to start saying no to their vets!
1. Oboe’s still making progress. Little baby steps. Today was the first day he didn’t weigh less than the day before. 44 grams, same as yesterday. He has lost 20% of his body weight in nine days. But he’s starting to eat more on his own, he’s much brighter, he spends time on a perch (instead of in his cave on the floor of his cage), and he chirps occasionally.
2. Duncan’s coming home today. (And he thanks Bonnie for pointing out that the reason he had to chew through the dog food bag was to see if there was a MOUSE in there.)
3. We’ve discovered that Rosie whimpers when we leave her alone. We know this because Simon the African Grey has added dog whimpers to his vocal repertoire. Rosie actually spends very little time alone because she goes to work with GC, who works in his basement. But on those rare occasions when she does get left behind, she whimpers. That’s what Simon says, anyway.
4. We made 4,000 more bottles of wine today.
5. I had an enjoyable (albeit puzzling) conversation on the bus yesterday with an elderly man whose favourite lottery is Cash for Life. I couldn’t help pointing out that that kind of lottery (which pays you a set amount per month until you die) is far more favourable to younger lottery players than older ones, and he said that’s okay, he’s planning to put the money aside for his grandchildren, who are still young.
I think Oboe has turned the corner! He seems a little brighter and livelier today, and he ate a little breakfast on his own. He’s still spending all his time sleeping in his cave, and he’s still breathing hard and can’t fly, but I sense that he’s stronger and happier today. I’m feeling guardedly optimistic.
As you may recall, Duncan is away on a business trip at GC’s house, dealing with a mouse. He completed this special assignment yesterday morning, but Oboe suggested it might be prudent to stay a few more days, just to make sure there aren’t other mice in GC’s house. Duncan has agreed to extend his business trip until Friday, when he has to come home for his B12 injection.
Duncan got to be a hero for a few hours at GC’s house on account of the mouse. But a few hours later, when GC was out walking Rosie, Duncan used that opportunity to get into the kitchen cabinets, scale the shelves, and chew big holes in Rosie’s dog food bag. His hero status was revoked.
It is 1:53 in the morning and I am up worrying. I got tired of lying in bed worrying, so I got up.
Some people are prone to worrying in the middle of the night. I am not usually one of them, so I find it interesting in a frustrating sort of way.
For starters, I’m worried about Oboe. He’s not getting better. He’s not getting worse. He’s just in limbo. And he’s not well enough for this limbo to be considered “good enough.” He spends all his time huddled in his cave inside his house. I take him out to force feed him and inject medications down his throat, and to cuddle him. He occasionally eats a few seeds, and this pleases me enormously. However, he’s not eating enough to survive, and he’s still losing weight. He’s not even drinking.
Birds need to be kept very warm when they’re sick, so they don’t waste calories trying to conserve body heat. Ideally, you should keep their cage at 90F. I’ve got a heating pad in his cage, which helps, but it doesn’t bring it up to 90. So I’ve jacked up the house temperature from 70 to 80. But it’s a programmable thermostat, and I can’t program it because I can’t get the stupid face plate off it. So all I can do is override it for two hours at a time.
So, I was also worrying that the temperature would drop during the night and make him sicker. But then I reminded myself that the heating pad would help. Next, I started worrying that the heating pad might catch fire. It says right on it that you shouldn’t leave it unattended. I started imagining the smoke detector going off and me running downstairs and trying to save all the birds.
I keep a travel cage under each of their houses, for easy access in case of emergency. However, when you really think about it, which I did, would I have time to retrieve and open each travel cage, grab each bird, stuff it in its travel cage, and get it outside before it perished from smoke inhalation? Birds have such sensitive respiratory systems. Even if I did manage to get them out in time, they would probably perish from the cold because birds are very sensitive to cold and drafts.
I considered grabbing a pillowcase and throwing them all in there to save a few seconds, but they’re mostly scared of each other and they’d probably panic and die because birds are quite fragile emotionally.
I also worried about the fact that I sleep naked, which would mean that I’d be standing outside in 20-below-zero weather, stark naked and holding a pillowcase full of panicking birds.
Since the house wasn’t actually on fire yet, I decided to put my pajamas on and come down and check on Oboe and the heating pad.
And here I am. Wide awake and worrying in the middle of the night. Ready for practically anything.
We brought Oboe home from the hospital last night. There hadn’t been any improvement since Friday, but no deterioration either. Poor little guy. Life’s tough right now. But so is Oboe; he’s a feisty little bird. (Although you wouldn’t know it to look at him right now. His personality has been seriously deflated.)
He was all fed and medicated when we picked him up, so he went straight to bed when we got home. I put a heating pad in his house, and I moved everything down so he could access it from the floor – food dish, water dish, perches, toys, his little Timothy’s Coffee cardboard box house. But he hopped in and climbed to the highest place in his cage, because that’s where birds feel most secure.
Speaking of feeling secure, Duncan was called away on a business trip for a few days. There was a mousing emergency at GC’s house. The timing was excellent, since I’m sure Oboe would rather not see Duncan’s big face while he’s in such a vulnerable state.
He can’t fly, his breathing is laboured, he’s weak, and he has no appetite so he has to be hand fed. And by hand fed, I mean practically force-fed with a syringe. He hates it. He doesn’t want to eat and he doesn’t want to take his meds. I don’t like forcing him to submit, but he’ll die if I don’t, so I do. It’s still pretty touch-and-go. If he loses more than 10% of his body weight, we’re in serious trouble. He’s lost exactly 10% since this happened – he’s down to 50 grams from 55.
But this afternoon I decided to take him out for a cuddle and see if I could coax him to eat some of the food in his dish. (I make them all breakfast every morning, and I served Oboe as usual, even though he’s being hand-fed.) I took his bowl out of his cage and discovered he’d been eating! He’d eaten a few sunflower seeds, and part of an almond, and maybe some walnut crumbs. He didn’t eat his apple, zucchini, birdie bread, carrot or kale, but I was thrilled that he’d eaten something.
Simon the Grey is happy to have Oboe home again. This morning I was cuddling Oboe on the couch and Simon flew over to check him out. They kissed, and then Simon put his head down, which is how he asks Oboe to groom him. Oboe didn’t have the energy to groom him (it’s a big job, since Simon is so much bigger), but he did lay his head on Simon’s head for a few moments. It was very touching.
In other news, my cholesterol is way too high, GC and I are making a quilt together, and Rosie’s head over heels in love with my boyfriend.
We went to visit Oboe in the hospital again this evening, and he seems to be improving. His breathing still isn’t great, and the vet says it might be a punctured air sac. She’s hoping it’ll resolve itself over time. She says we’re basically keeping him alive and buying him time so that Mother Nature can heal him. She’s less concerned about his wing now than about his breathing. It might not be broken after all. He can’t fly, but at least it’s not drooping. It might get better on its own too.
Here’s an 11-second video I took of him tonight.
Also, he finally chirped! It was only one little chirp, but it was the first sound he has made since all this happened. He’s still not eating, but he got excited about a corn kernel I offered him, and he wrapped his beak around it. He nibbled a bit of millet for me, too.
I’m especially happy to be able to report that he’s coming home tomorrow night, assuming he doesn’t take a turn for the worse between now and then. The vet wants him to have the extra insurance of another day of injected antibiotics, since cat bites are so incredibly deadly, bacteria-wise.
He’ll still be on oral antibiotics and anti-inflammatories for pain. And I’ll have to handfeed him baby bird formula with a syringe three times a day until he can feed himself. As long as I can keep him well fed and hydrated and warm and safe, he should be okay here.
Which is great, because I was starting to think the ultimate irony would be that I’d spend all my reserves on “buying him time” and then when he was finally strong enough for treatment to fix him, I’d be out of money and unable to afford it.
He’s a little avian vet humour for you: A bird goes to the vet and the vet says “The bad news is that you’ve got a serious case of chirpies. The good news is that it’s tweetable.”
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