by Jerry Cole
“I know this is a big ask, and I am sorry.” Jeanie carefully opened the box.
Finally, Blake found the gloves and pulled them on. He turned around to peer into the box and saw a pathetic-looking Moluccan cockatoo peering at him with the most pleading expression he had ever seen on a bird. All of its feathers looked ratty and dull, and it had discharge around its beak and eyes that told him the bird was not healthy at all.
“Hey bird…” he murmured softly. “Can you step up?” he put his hand in the box slowly, and to his surprise, the bird lifted one gray foot, gripped the side of his hand in the glove, and carefully stepped up.
“Wow…didn’t expect that,” Angie said quietly. “He tried to bite me when I put that bowl of mush in his box.”
“He’s just scared, aren’t you buddy?” Blake murmured. He used his other hand to gently stroke the bird’s head, and the bird, still with mouth open and panting, leaned into the contact. “Who’s a sweet bird?” He looked at the bird’s nose on the top of its beak and got his ear as close as he dared until he could clearly hear the whistling.
He looked back at the other three humans in the room. “He probably has a respiratory infection. There’s gunk caked around his nares, but I don’t want to maltreat him too much and traumatize him any further. I can give him a dose of oral antibiotics and keep him here until morning. Then someone can drive him to Ft. Collins. The vet school there can help him.”
Angie and Jeanie nodded. The man was mesmerized by the bird and didn’t seem to be listening.
“I didn’t know they were so friendly…” He stated after a few moments.
Blake looked down at the bird, who had climbed along his arm until it could burrow in the flannel shirt he had on over his t-shirt. “Moluccans are really sweet animals. I’m not a bird person, but if I were, I’d want a Moluccan.”
“Why would anyone dump it like that?” Jeanie asked. “It seems so sweet.”
“Probably because it plucked all its feathers out and was screaming. My bet is they just put it in a cage and left it out like a decoration. They’re social creatures, and they’re incredibly smart. You can’t just treat them like a houseplant.” He was still petting the bird’s head, trying not to let the sadness of the situation overwhelm him. “They aren’t good pets. Not really. More like children that never grow up.” He sighed and looked at the bird. “I’m going to give him some meds, try to get a few more diagnostics, and then put him in an oxygen cage. He’ll be okay until morning, I think. You don’t want to try to get him to Ft. Collins in this weather either way and at least if he doesn’t make it through the night, he won’t have been in a fucking box on a sidewalk. I’m not even going to attempt to draw blood. Not without an assistant here.”
“One of us could help?” Jeanie offered.
Blake just shook his head. “I’m not going to traumatize him. Or her.” He continued to pet the bird. “Someone just needs to show up bright and early tomorrow morning to get him down to Ft. Collins.”
“I’ll do it. I have tomorrow off, and my car has snow tires,” the man replied. “I’m Jensen, by the way. I work with Angie.”
Blake looked more carefully at the man in the corner. He was much shorter than Blake’s own six feet, and his hair was shockingly red. He could have been anywhere between twenty-five and forty, though Blake would guess mid to early thirties if someone put a gun to his head. The guy’s cheekbones could have cut glass, though his freckles softened the effect a little.
Blake had turned forty not long ago, and he knew he looked older than that. The limp didn’t help make him look younger. He had brown hair already going gray from stress and blue eyes. One eye was just slightly lazy, and most people didn’t notice it at first, but it didn’t help his looks any.
He brought himself back to the present. “All right, come by around 8AM and I’ll have the bird packed up, Jensen.” He sounded gruffer than he meant to, but there was a pang of something like longing in his chest, and he didn’t want to dwell on it too much. He hadn’t been this attracted to another man in years, and it was a strange and unpleasant feeling to have it happen now with a complete stranger.
“Sounds good, Dr. Renoir.”
“Blake. Call me Blake.”
Jensen gave him a tiny half smile at that. “All right, Blake.”
Blake felt his stomach flip a little at that smile. He wanted to believe it was a little flirty, but he also couldn’t imagine that it was. He was at least ten years older than this guy and looked older than that. Even if the cute redhead did happen to be gay, that didn’t mean he was going to have any interest in a weird, old veterinarian with a bad limp and no social skills.
Plans made, the three of them headed back to town, and Blake put the bird into a heated cage with some oxygen and plenty of food and water. He filled a syringe with antibiotics, hoping he wouldn’t have to wrestle the bird alone to take them. The cockatoo eyed the syringe for a second, then beaked it, black tongue flicking around the end. Blake syringed the liquid into its mouth, and the cockatoo swallowed without complaint, then went back to his food.
“What kind of hell were you living in, buddy?” Blake asked, petting the bird’s head again.
The bird cooed but didn’t answer. It was awfully calm and cooperative for a sick animal, and especially for a sick parrot. His experience with sick parrots usually involved a lot of very painful bites.
Blake sighed, closed the cage up, shut the lights off, and went to bed.
Chapter Three
The next morning, Jensen got up early, showered, and headed immediately for Blake’s house. He’d slept well enough, but he had had a few strange dreams regarding Blake, and he wasn’t sure what to make of them. The parts he could remember were disgustingly domestic. He didn’t usually dream about cooking eggs, unpacking boxes in a garage, or arguing about Christmas decorations. Usually, his dreams featuring men were either much stranger or much more X-rated. These had felt almost real. Or prophetic.
He would have been lying if he claimed he didn’t find the other man a little attractive. He might not have been the type to catch eyes at a bar, but he was fit, smart, and he had the most intense eyes Jensen could ever recall seeing. He also was kind to a mangy-looking cockatoo that could have taken his finger off.
And the bird seemed to like him instantly. Maybe that was a sign. Though honestly, Jensen had so little experience with birds that he didn’t know if they were like dogs and could sense when someone was a bastard. Maybe cockatoos weren’t good judges of character.
He certainly wasn’t.
Jensen pulled up in front of the house and stared for a second. In the dark and snow, it had looked like any of the other Victorians that were scattered around the area. In the daylight and covered with a fresh coat of snow, it looked like a frosted cupcake in blue and cream. It was almost fanciful. A sign for “Dr. Renoir, Veterinarian” hung on chains on the porch railing.
A battered 1990s truck with a bit of a lift on it sat in front of the garage and looked like it had already had the ice and snow removed.
Jensen got out of his small SUV and went to the front door to ring the bell.
Blake appeared a moment later, looking sweaty, grouchy and dressed for heavy-duty farm work in thick coveralls and a hat from the last century.
“Morning,” Jensen said just a little warily, recalling the man’s gruff tone the night before.
“Morning. I’ve got the bird packed up for you and ready to go. There’s a horse with bad colic at one of the ranches near the national park, and I need to get over there. Just wait here for a second.” Blake turned to go back into the parlor and came back with the bird packed up in a dog carrier, complete with what looked like a baby’s car seat cover wrapped around it to keep the drafts out. He handed it to Jensen, along with a folder with a few papers in it. “Here’s my notes, what few I took. They’ll be able to do a lot more for him than I can. I called ahead, so just ask for Dr. Mitchell when you get there.”
“Okay,
thanks.” Jensen looked up from taking the carrier and their eyes locked for a long second. Jensen felt his cheeks go pink and Blake swallowed hard before looking away and clearing his throat.
“Anyway, I told them to send the bill to me, so if there’s any confusion, just tell them to run the credit card I have on file.”
Jensen’s eyes went wide. “I thought the county would—”
“Nah, they’d just put him down if they had to pay for it. Exotics are pricey. Don’t worry about it. I already told Jeanie that I’d keep him.” Blake coughed, still not looking at him. “Always liked cockatoos. And the parrot rescues in Colorado are all full to bursting anyway. If I find him a good home, good. If I keep him, that’s fine too. The office could use a mascot.”
Jensen couldn’t help but grin. This man was definitely his kind of person. Anyone that would dump potentially thousands of dollars into an animal, and then decide to keep the animal spur-of-the-moment? His type. “All right, sounds good. Though I can help cover the costs. I’d be glad to help.”
Blake shook his head. “Appreciate it, but don’t worry about it. You’re working as a barista. I don’t imagine you have a lot of extra coming in.”
“I’m…not hurting. But okay. I’ll call when I get to Ft. Collins.”
Blake followed him onto the porch and locked the door behind him, then headed for the old truck as Jensen got into his SUV and headed east, while Blake drove the old truck toward the park.
Jensen glanced at the carrier and saw a beady black eye looking at him through the grate. He turned onto Highway 34.
“I hope you’re not as sick as he seems to think you are.”
The bird didn’t respond.
“Maybe I should have told him that I’m not a struggling barista barely making rent, but if he wants to keep you, maybe that doesn’t matter as much.” Jensen sighed, watching the road, driving slowly to avoid sending the car skidding into a ditch. “But then again, it is a bit insulting he thinks Angie would pay me badly. Or maybe he thinks I’m bad with money? I don’t know.”
Jensen had always had a habit of talking to himself in the car. Anyone watching him would think he was having a heated conversation with someone through the car’s speaker system, but the truth was that he almost never used it and didn’t have too many people to call if he wanted to. His parents were alive and well, but they had always been distant and cold as long as he could remember. They were well aware he was gay, and it had never been much of a concern to them. His older sister and older brother were the darlings of the family anyway so he could do whatever he wanted without consequences.
Of course, that also meant he very rarely got much attention when he was growing up.
His two best friends growing up had been Sophia and Emmanuel, but he hadn’t spoken to either of them in years. Since his last relationship, in fact. The temptation to call them was there. It was always there. He’d missed them this entire time. He just didn’t know how to begin to tell them how sorry he was for everything, and how he wished he’d listened when they told him to run away from the man who had ruined his life. Sophia had reached out to him a few times since then, but he had never returned her calls or messages. Judging from social media, it looked like she and Emmanuel had finally accepted what everyone else had known for years and had started dating, which only made things more painful. He had always joked that he would be there to help her plan her wedding, silently assuming that wedding would be to Emmanuel.
The bird made a grinding noise with its beak, startling him a bit, and he glanced over. It had its eyes closed and looked sleepy.
“I wish I knew what your name was. Feels strange to keep calling you ‘bird’ all the time.”
The bird opened one eye. “Pretty bird, Ginger. Pretty bird,” it said in a gravelly voice.
Jensen almost drove off the road in shock. “Ginger? Is that your name?”
“C’mere, Ginger. Pretty bird.”
“Oooookay then. Guess it’s Ginger.”
He was almost at the turn for Wilson Ave, which would take him the rest of the way into Ft. Collins and avoid the traffic and chaos on I-25. He didn’t need the traffic readout on his navigation system to tell him that I-25 was a mess. It was always a mess. At least the snow had let off.
They made it to the veterinary school without any further surprises, and Jensen went inside with the carrier, trying to move quickly without slipping on the ice. He checked in with the receptionist, and within a minute the bird was taken to the back for diagnostics, and Jens was given a cup of coffee that, while not particularly good, was at least drinkable.
He pulled up a book on his phone and settled in to wait.
Chapter Four
Blake swore at the truck’s lack of heated seats and bouncy, uncomfortable suspension as he headed for the ranch near Rocky Mountain National Park. He had been expecting a junky old SUV when he walked out on the porch, not a sleek import that couldn’t be more than a few years old. The damn bird was more comfortable than he was by a long shot.
How in the hell did a barista manage to afford a ride like that?
He wasn’t hurting…that wasn’t the issue. And he had heard the rumor mill around town speculating about Angie’s barista. The tourist town had a few fulltime residents, and they all knew each other and talked constantly. Blake had lived there since his mother had divorced his father when he was 12 and had moved them up there. He’d attended school in Ft. Collins, both undergrad and veterinary school. His mother had passed away a few years ago, and he had stayed. He stopped into Angie’s café in the early mornings but had never seen the guy. He would have remembered hair like that. And the freckles. And the cheekbones.
He sighed and tried to ignore the nagging, depressing thoughts he could feel lapping at the back of his mind. Back when he was still seeing a therapist regularly, he had described his particular brand of depression as having a sticky, inky black tentacle wrapped around his leg, pulling him back into a hole. If he let it get a grip on him, it would pull him in, and he would have to spend weeks or months clawing back out. Antidepressants helped keep the tentacle from getting a really good grip, but they couldn’t make it go away entirely.
The accident that had permanently damaged his left hip and leg had occurred back in Denver when he was 28. He had gone into the city with friends on Halloween, and he was more than a little intent on hooking up with someone. They had been walking between two bars, dressed in costumes, having a great time, when a motorcyclist going too fast on the slick, rainy roads had lost control, clipped a corner, and went flying. The motorcyclist was thrown clear and survived without a scratch. Blake was hit with the careening vehicle and spent two months in the hospital.
He had come precariously close to dying several times, and it had taken two years to get his life back on track.
He hadn’t dated since before the accident. He had gone into Boulder or Ft. Collins for a quick hookup a few times, but he hadn’t actually dated in any real sense in a decade. He had believed he was over that period in his life.
He also avoided setting foot in Denver if he could at all avoid it.
Instead, he was picturing a shock of red hair and freckles laid out in front of him, and his face was getting hot again.
He was thankful when he arrived at the ranch because it meant getting out into the cold wind and having a good reason for a red face.
The daughter of the owner, a woman named Jessica, greeted him as he got out.
“Sorry about this, Blake. We weren’t sure what else to do. We gave him mineral oil last night, and it didn’t seem to help.”
“It’s all right.” He went to the back of the truck to get his equipment, then followed her into the barn.
The day promptly vanished as Blake spent several hours with the colicky horse putting in a nasogastric tube, and then drove into town to help with a dog who had been struck by a car. While he did have a small office and exam room in his house, he mainly saw patients out of a larger space in town tha
t had, at one point, been a diner. Another vet, a man named Marco, also shared the office and usually saw most of their small animal clients. He was younger and less-experienced, and he wasn’t good with large animals at all. Their receptionist and vet tech, an older woman, named Beth, kept everything running as smoothly as could be expected.
He finished with the dog, uncertain that the little poodle would make it but confident that they had done all they possibly could for it.
When he finally checked his phone, there were 4 missed calls and around 20 texts from a number he didn’t recognize. He realized immediately that the number was Jensen, and it was all related to the cockatoo. He read through the texts, which listed what diagnostics had been run and said that they were going to keep Ginger overnight for monitoring.
Blake hit the dial button on the phone and waited for Jensen to pick up.
“Hello?” Jensen’s voice made Blake’s stomach flip, which was odd, but he tried to ignore it.
“Hey, sorry I didn’t answer. Had two emergencies back to back. Did you name the bird ‘Ginger’ or did it say that was its name?”
“It’s fine, that’s what I figured. And yeah, she said ‘Ginger, pretty bird’ a few times in the car. I think that must be her name. They said they don’t know if it’s a he or a she without a genetic test since cockatoos aren’t…”
“Sexually dimorphic, yeah. X-rays show sometimes, but the genetic test is the most conclusive. Why do they want to keep her overnight?” Blake settled back in a chair and drank some of the cold coffee sitting on his desk for hours. He needed to eat something, his head was feeling fuzzy, and he could tell a headache was coming on.
