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GINGER
I
met Ginger over 10 years ago. Ginger was one heck of a bird. If you
never met Ginger, then you probably won’t understand what all the
fuss--the very real grief--is about. He was a vibrant feathered dynamo.
He had likes, dislikes, temper tantrums, indulgences. He appreciated
certain types of music (bebop and beach), and if he happened to feel
sleepy or bored, he’d climb into his covered cage for a quick nap, then
reappear with his top feathers bristling, as if to say, “I bet you missed
me!” We did. And do.
Ginger fell in love with a few All Pets Considered
customers, almost always light-haired women. Without having a good
vantage point (since his home was near the counter, not the store
entrance), somehow he knew when his favorite people hit the door. He’d
start trillling away, as if they could forget to drop by his perch.
They’d make a bee-line to his perch. How could he think they’d forget?
And how’d he know who was coming? He enjoyed all of his visitors, but
there were some that just ruffled his feathers in a good way; when they
were near, and by “near” I mean parking in the parking lot, he let it be
known. Sometimes they’d sneak up on him, his head tucked under a wing
for a cozy snooze, but more often he’d announce their entrance. How’d he
know? I keep asking myself that. He’d perch on their shoulders as
meandered down the usual aisles. And he’d talk the entire time. Or I
should say that they talked the entire time. I’ve probably overheard too
many Customer-Ginger conversations. They’d talk to him in low tones
about, what, the price of gas? The condition of his top-knot? Whatever,
it was a riveting conversation for the two of them. They’d sing to him,
give him kisses, and he’d sing and kiss back.
He’d also pipe up with special sounds for special
people. Back to overheard conversations: I can’t remember how many times
I happened to hear one of those favorites apologizing to Ginger. (Yes,
apologizing to a cockatiel.) I’d be stocking food or helping in the
office, and there’d be “But I have to go, Ginger” or “Ginger, I CAN’T
spend more time with you today. I’ll come back Sunday.” He’d hang onto
their finger or crawl up their shoulders to delay their leaving. It was
a tried-and-true tactic of his. It bought him at least a couple more
minutes. We didn’t like to point it out, but sometimes he’d try to coax
them into staying with a mating ritual. That got him five or more
minutes, until someone asked what he was doing and the laughter subsided.
I never though a bird could have so many moods and so
much personality. Ginger could be petulant and sweet in a split-second.
If he got into his mind (and I do think this bird had a mind) that he
needed a leg-stretching stroll around the store, why, he would do it, and
if we rushed up to “save” him from the dangers below, he just might nip.
But then after he’d done his walk, seen his sights, done whatever he set
out to do in the first place, then he’d allow us to put him back on his
perch for most of the day. He was truly content there. And pampered.
He ate good food, of course, but Diana would treat
him to goldfish or cheese-nips. He could skin a sunflower seed in no time
flat. That was always entertaining to kids.
And he’d do what I called the funky chicken (sorry,
Ginger) to music when he felt like it.
Once I heard him do an amazing thing. We had a
series of mild spring days, so had the doors wide open. For a week or so,
wild birds had either nested behind the storefront sign or had decided to
hang out there. Before we got busy, I could hear their songs, different
from Ginger’s. Then Ginger suddenly starting copying their sounds. He
became a wild bird, experimenting with sounds. And he was good at it.
So we’ll miss this tiny little fellow. I’ve never
been a bird person, but Ginger taught me something new. Even if he did
bite me a few times.
Jennifer
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