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The parakeet Cold War

By Abby Holekamp

May 7, 2009 | 12:00 a.m. CST

At age 9, I had never wanted anything so much as I wanted a parakeet. Well, except for a cat. And those pink cowboy boots. And there was that one time with those miniature toy horses — but really, this parakeet was a cat, a pair of pink cowboy boots and several miniature horses all rolled into one.

I started scheming. In preparation for the arrival of my new best friend, I pored over books about parakeets at the library, all of them illustrated with faded photos of grinning kids who always seemed to be wearing burnt orange corduroy bell-bottoms and badly feathered bangs. Look at how much fun they’re having with their parakeets, I marveled. Talking with them! Letting them sit on their shoulders, like a pirate would! Feeding them pieces of fresh fruit from the palms of their hands! It was all so exotic, this world of parakeet ownership. I desperately wanted in. I knew this parakeet would be the perfect addition to the little universe that I had created as an only child with an overactive imagination. Of course my bird would play by my rules.

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My dad had the final say, and I was worried he would be hard to convince. He was known for disliking pets of the noncanine variety. But he was equally infamous for his love of a good deal. And he knew just the place to get a parakeet on the cheap — the grocery store.

So we got my parakeet from the butcher, Ronnie. The man who, for years, told my parents which roast chicken to buy for dinner also bred birds for fun. He looked like a viking, a fact not ameliorated by his stained butcher’s apron. It didn’t occur to me at the time that this was a man who probably spent much of his day job hacking apart less fortunate avian specimens with a meat cleaver.

One week and $5 later, a gangly, melancholic little parakeet was added to the family. I was determined to look beyond physical appearances. Thus I bestowed on my parakeet a name befitting the most regal of birds. Sunflash might not resemble a beam of daylight so much as a miniature, moldering green feather duster, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t learn to be great. He had to have potential somewhere. Maybe his name would inspire him.

Each day after I came home from school, I would trot up to his cage first thing and gently open the door, and, as the kids with the feathered bangs had taught me, slowly stick my hand in, index finger outstretched, right by his perch. I suppose the idea is that the bird will learn to think of your finger the same way it thinks of its perch.

At first Sunflash just ignored me. He refused to make eye contact. But I was patient. I knew this bird was destined for greatness; he was just shy. I would poke and prod him tenderly while whispering words of encouragement: “Come on, Flash. Who’s a pretty bird? Who’s a pretty bird?” Who could resist such flattery? I thought, even if it wasn’t true. I was in charge here.

After several weeks, we got to the point where he would gingerly place exactly one scabby claw on my index finger and stare at me, petulantly. I was quickly learning that my parakeet was a master of the withering look. He would sulk. I would sulk. We would sit there together in a stalemate and sulk at each other until one of us gave up.

I was always the one who gave up. In this battle of wills, the Cold War of human/parakeet relations, I was losing.

Call it a symptom of growing up an only child, but I was used to things being just so. No foods ever touched on my plate (Peas cozying up to pork chops? The horror!). All of the itchy tags were dutifully cut out of my T-shirts. My books were alphabetized. Now I wanted to dictate terms with Sunflash with the same precision I used when arranging the unruly horde of stuffed animals taking over my bedroom.

But this obstinate creature wasn’t stuffed. He simply cocked his hard little head and snubbed my “just so.” When I persisted, he bit me. Clearly, he also liked for things to be just so. I had invited him into my private world, but he wouldn’t follow my mandates.

So he refused to be tamed. So he wasn’t beautiful. So what? Sunflash and I had more in common than I had anticipated. I had finally met my match, and he had feathers. Mangy ones.

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