Walter: A Parakeet Eulogy

After Charlie the Parakeet passed away in 1996, my freshman year in high school, my family didn't think we'd ever own another parakeet.  Charlie could not be matched, was the consensus.  He was loving and affectionate, and loyal as a dog.  Even when we bought him a mate, Erna, who was aloof toward us & domineering toward Charlie, he worked hard to make both his human & bird families happy.  He would visit with us, generously dolling out kisses and sweet parakeet jabber, but when Erna squawked angrily from their cage, he'd head home to spend some quality time preening his love, emerging later in the evening to spend more time with my parents, my bother, and I.  So when it was suggested by my dad, some seven years later, that we get another parakeet, I was understandably hesitant.  How could any bird possibly live up to Charlie's legacy?

When we headed out to the pet store that brisk October afternoon -- mom, pops, brother, brother's girlfriend, & I-- I felt a heavy burden of responsibility.  My dad had explicitly stated that I was in charge of choosing the bird.  Without a doubt, I had been Charlie's favorite, & that special bond must have led my dad to believe that I possessed superior instincts in all things parakeet. 

At the store I spent a lot of time observing the 8 week old birds, peeping & hopping from perch to perch.  I wanted to find a bird that seemed outgoing, but sweet.  After nearly 45 minutes my exasperated dad finally said, "Just PICK one, Tracy!"  Instead of going with the biggest ham in the bunch who had been hanging upside down on rings and chirping loudly, I went with the little guy who seemed friendly, but wasn't an over-the-top show-off.  Little did I know that Walter would become a larger than life character who would put his acrobatic parakeet brother to shame.

Walter developed a regimen for his days, exhibiting more joy & more discipline than I myself have ever managed to exercise.  He alternated between socializing, study, exercise, & quiet introspection.  5:00 a.m. was when my dad got up for work, and likewise, when Walter began his day.  Walter was positively jubilant at this hour, flying back & forth across the living room & kitchen, chirping at the top of his lungs.  Walter pretty much had the run of the place--flying about & exploring his environment with frequent trips back to his cage to eat, drink, & nap.  Later in the day, Walter would practice his burgeoning vocabulary.  He would balance on one tiny bird-leg with his eyes shut tightly in concentration, reciting the words we cooed to him.  "Walter baby biiiiiirrrrrd.  You're so cute.  Come here! Come here! Where's Tracy?"  Walter also learned how to make a convincing Canada Goose honk from the clock in our living room.  While there were eleven other bird calls from birds much closer to his size and range, Walter fixated on the goose and practiced until he had it just right. 

Interspersed with Walter's socializing & vocabulary study was weight training.  His weights of choice were coins--preferably shiny quarters or nickels.  He would push them off various surfaces & onto the floor.  From there, he would lift one side with his beak and begin his arduous, but surprisingly quick journey to the kitchen, flipping the coin from carpeting to linoleum, where it made the metallic high-pitched dinging sounds that he found so pleasing.  Walter was positively single-minded when it came to pushing coins from table to floor.  One would have guessed it was his entire purpose in life on those days when a fistful of change was deposited atop the entertainment center.  Walter would not rest until every last coin was on the floor.  After a good $1.86 in motley change was tossed to the ground, Walter would look down at it, proud & deeply satisfied.

Walter never had a parakeet-mate, but he never expressed interest in one the way Charlie did, specifically by humping every last object in his cage.  Wally did, however, develop special bonds with various inanimate object throughout the house.  We called these objects his girlfriends.  At times, Walter had just one girlfriend who he would heap all his affection upon.  Other times, Walter was quite the Casanova, lavishing smooches--complete with a lip-smacking sound he learned from me--upon the jingly bell in his cage, then heading directly to a silver bolt on the bottom of a shelving unit to coo a few more sweet nothings, finally rounding out the night by tenderly nuzzling a quarter.
  
Walter had only been with us for about a year when I impulsively moved down to Florida to live with a boyfriend.  That year-long adventure didn't pan-out relationship-wise, but it did help illuminate how much I really wanted my family to be an immediate part of my life.  I spoke with my mom on the phone almost every day, & most conversations ended with me asking to talk to Walter.  My mom happily complied and put the phone next to his cage.  Initially, Walter was terrified of the giant thing, but when he heard the sound of my voice cooing gibberish, he shuffled over and listened intently, as my mom described it to me.  I swear I talked to that bird on the phone at least twice a week for an entire year.  But when I returned home, Walter was kind of frosty toward me.  It was much the same way Charlie acted when my family left him with my grandparents for a week to go on vacation--a little angry & a little hurt.  He warmed to me again soon enough & we were excellent buddies again.

Even as I noticed some signs of aging in Walter-- the grip of his feet on my finger weakening, his flight less strong & certain-- part of me believed he was invincible, even immortal.  That tiny guy lived through things that were taxing even for humans.  Case in point: my mom neglected to turn a giant pot of pinto beans down to simmer before she left the house & all the liquid quickly boiled away and the beans began to burn & smoke.  When my dad came home the house was hazy with throat-searing smoke.  He set Walter's cage on the porch and proceeded to open every window & turn on every fan in the house.  When I came home, hours later, the choke of burning was still in the air.  The toxic smell irritated my allergies & asthma so badly that I moved into my grandma's house for an entire week.  Meanwhile, Walter appeared no worse for it, merrily tweeting & hopping about in his cage.  Even days later you could still smell the char in his feathers, but aside from that you would have never known that Walter had been the proverbial canary in a coal mine.

Another near-death experience happened over Christmastime one year.  I decided to let Walter out to visit & perform for our relatives.  Being the genial fellow he was, he flew right to my great grandma and landed on her head.  Grandma was clearly not expecting this, & she reflexively swatted him off her head and to the ground.  I swept in and grabbed the dazed Walter, whisking him into the next room where I could assess his injuries & possibly cry without making my 90 year old great grandmother feel badly.  As always, Walter was just fine and, ever the mischief-maker, ready to land in a big bowl of mashed potatoes.

Walter was also an exceptionally good judge of character.  This was demonstrated most clearly when he was introduced to a guy I dated for a couple of months.  The normally friendly Walter who liked to greet all newcomers absolutely refused to go near my boyfriend.  When I finally forced the bird onto his shoulder, Walter began pecking and biting his cheek and ear with a ferocity I had never seen before.  A couple of weeks later it became evident that my boyfriend was a total asshole.  I never forgot that Walter had been the first to know. 

Walter's utter fearlessness was hilarious to behold.  My family decided to take home a puppy from my aunt's litter about six years ago.  I was quite nervous about inviting a dog into a home with a bird who was used to having the run of the place.  I fell in love with our new dog, Boomer, instantly, but I just didn't know what to expect from either bird or puppy.  It took just one scolding when Walter flew near Boomer for the little dog to understand that the bird was not to be bothered.  The following year brought another litter of puppies at my aunt's house, and this time we got a girl puppy named Daisy.  She followed Boomer's lead with the bird, staying out of his way as much as possible.  And whenever Walter--that crazy, curious, audacious little bird--landed on one of the dogs' heads or paws, Boomer and Daisy would sit stock-still until he grew bored and flew away.  Then the dogs would move to a safer place in the house, far from the menacing parakeet.

There are so many sweet & funny little things I am going to miss about Walter.  His passionate love of bananas, which had to be covered with a towel lest he gnaw through the peels of each & every one.  The little showers he took under a trickle of lukewarm water from the kitchen faucet in the summertime, & how he would try to bathe in glasses of drinking water whenever he got the chance, once somehow getting his chest & belly stuck in a mug so that my dad had to pull him free by his tail. 

I'll even miss clipping his little toenails, which was always a nerve-wracking job-- a millimeter too far up & he'd be a goner.  But after a short while of holding that impossibly tiny, soft, warm body in my hand, he would stop fighting and relax, letting my brother and I finish the task easily.  Then, I could never resist holding him there for a bit longer and petting & kissing the spongy white mound atop his head that I called his "marshmallow".  I would bring the little captive bird over by my dad and tell him to kiss Walter's head.  Pops always said he wouldn't kiss the bird, but he was clearly amused by this silly bi-monthly tradition.  More often than not, when I opened my hand to free Walter he would simply stand up and stay right there with me, not flying away in fear or to protest the indignity of it all.  Few things are more beautiful to me that truly gaining the trust and love of an animal.  And with Walter, I had clearly earned both.   I could coo & kiss his little face & belly for minutes at a time, the rest of my family looking on, shaking their heads and laughing.

I was the one who found little Walter on the floor of his cage yesterday, & I certainly did cry & grieve for my sweet little bird.  My dad said something, half-joking, to me while we were talking about where to bury him.  "You're certainly handling this better than when Charlie died."  And I had to admit that, yes, I was.  But then again, if that was the basis of comparison, the bar was set pretty low.  When Charlie died, I took off running for Rawson woods where I sobbed for over an hour.  And then later that night I went out to Charlie's grave and cried until my dad told me to "Get the hell in the house." 

I may be handling this loss less dramatically, but I cannot say that I'm feeling it any less deeply.  And I suspect there is no amount of maturity that can dull the edges of this kind of hurt.  But I'm more than a little surprised that I'm glad of it.  I'm glad that the pain of loss stings as much now as it did when I was a child.  Our hearts don't get harder as we grow older; if we're doing it right, they get bigger to accommodate more and more love, & consequently, more and more loss.  And I never want to build up a tolerance to this pain.  I want the pain to wreck and ravage me so that I know my love was as large & deep & limitless as my grief.