As one more little pet of the family passes on, it brings me back to our first house pet, Woody, the parakeet. My daughter’s second grade teacher was Mrs. Woody, having a classroom parakeet, known for saying, “Buenos dias!”
My daughter would let Woody out of the cage, sometimes leading to an escape from her bedroom. All chaos would break lose, with yells to quickly shut all windows and doors. This accomplished, the next task would be to capture the bird. He would take flight as soon as someone was close enough to wrap his or her arms around it. It could take up to 30 minutes, with adult supervision, to protect floor lamps and precious items during these escapades.
It came time for me to return to work as a classroom teacher, a week before my three children would begin their year of school. I was very nervous about leaving them, at the tender ages of eleven, eight and five. Relatives would be in and out all day, as would be the neighbors, but I still hesitated about leaving my precious cargo behind. I knew they would be good children, but I still had one rule: Do not let Woody out of the cage while I am gone.
Mid-morning of that first day back, the secretary paged my classroom, to say I had an emergency phone call. Cell phones were in seldom use at this time, leaving me to sprint to the office phone, my heart going into my stomach, both pumping and thumping at top speed. My eight year old is on the line, sobbing. They had let Woody out of the cage, thinking I would never know about it. While running after it, the five year old stepped on the bird, as it landed on the floor. It was not moving. My eleven year old, in bare feet and eyes filled with tears, had scooped up the bird, running down the street to the vet’s office, only two blocks away.
Hearing the news, my heart and stomach slid back into place. From my end, there was not much to say, except that I was sorry. I did not have to add the line of “I told you so,” as this was apparent, told to me through the heaving sobs.
I called the vet’s office. I am seeing dollar signs in front of my eyes now, of the pet hospital’s attempt to save the $15 bird. The receptionist was kind, saying they had never taken in a bird before. However, to see this slender boy, in his shorts and bare feet, crying through his big brown eyes, and asking if they could take care of his little sister’s bird, they were going to give it a try. A vet was tending to the tiny bird at that very moment.
After I returned home from work, the children and I went to check on Woody. We walked to a back room, where a makeshift oxygen mask was covering its small beak. It was resting on the floor of a cage meant for a small, four-legged animal, as it breathed in the oxygen. This would continue through the night and through most of the next day. The children were thrilled, literally jumping up and down, big smiles on their faces. I was happy for them, but I could not help but think of what that oxygen was costing me per hour.
The veterinarian called to say Woody was fine; it was time to pick him up. What excitement there was! As he presented the bird to my eight year old’s cupped hands, the doctor turned to me, smiled, and said, “There is no charge. To see your son’s care for his little sister and the happiness they now have is enough for me.” My expression of thanks was heartfelt. The bird was fine, the vet was pleased, the children were laughing and I was ready to dance a jig.
We did leave a box of chocolates for the vet soon after. We enjoyed Woody for many more years. None of us forgot that day, nor did the children ever let the bird out of the cage if I was not home!
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