Robert’s life was not all beer and skittles. There were a few crises, and then, especially if he was in pain, he wanted human companionship and comfort. We all had to be careful lest Robert were underfoot. Mildred always wears rather soft rubber-soled shoes, such as modified sneakers, in the house. One day, when I called for Mildred to take her to a luncheon, I found the household in anguish. When Mildred had gone into the bedroom to dress, Robert had been ensconced on the doctor’s shoulder watching television. Usually we could hear the little feet tip-tapping across the floor, but this time he must have gone into the bedroom at a walk, which was not so audible as a run. Mildred had put on a pair of spike-heeled shoes. As she stepped back from the dressing table there was a scream—a scream of pain. She had stepped on one of the fragile little toes. She picked him up, the doctor came on the run and cuddled Robert close to his wool-shirted chest. How that toe bled! How so much blood could be in that tiny body is beyond comprehension. Mildred was in tears; there was blood all over Tommy’s shirt. Some medicine to staunch the flow of blood was located and applied. (Where is the pressure point in a quail’s toe?) The toenail end was gone. As animals so often do, Robert seemed to sense that he was being helped, and remained absolutely still while being treated, except for the plaintive little cries he made.
As we left for the luncheon, Mildred still a bit red-eyed, Tommy was walking up and down the living room with Robert practically under his chin, assuring him that everything would be all right, pretty soon it wouldn’t hurt any more, as one would try to comfort a hurt child. The toe was still bleeding, though much less than at first. Of course, as soon as we got up from the luncheon table, Mildred telephoned home, and learned that the bleeding had stopped but that Robert would not yet leave the comfort of Tommy’s hands. We arrived home from the luncheon about five o’clock to find Tommy still holding the little bird. He had held him all the afternoon. Robert held no resentment whatever and went willingly to Mildred, relieving Tommy. He hopped on one foot for the rest of that evening, limped badly for a day or two, then less and less. However, it was about five days before he walked normally. The toe did not grow out again—that is, the nail end or claw end—but a dark, very hard little nodule did form.
An almost incredible sequence to this accident occurred about three months later. One evening as the family were at the dinner table, and Robert had not yet joined them, they saw him fly up onto the coffee table and heard him give a shrill cry. He had miscalculated the distance and had struck that poor toe on the edge of the table, knocking off the little nodule at the end. He flew immediately to the dining-room table, went right to Tommy and with the same plaintive cries held up the injured foot. It bled, but only slightly, and was soon taken care of; but Tommy finished dinner with Robert in the crook of his arm. This time it healed much more quickly. An odd fact emerging from all this was that Robert continued to be fascinated by shoes.
Another time of worry was when Robert caught a cold. He picked it up from one of the grandchildren, who had a miserable cold himself. We always tried to keep Robert away from such contacts, but in this case it was impossible. He was really ill the next day. His eyes ran, his nose ran, he had to breathe through his mouth entirely, he was miserable. He must have had a temperature, for he drank quantities of water and sought out cool places, even going to the far end of the kitchen counter from the beloved lamp to lie on the formica surface. He did no grooming and looked dejected and ruffled up. He tried hard to clear his nose, working away at it with a claw. The doctor tried too, but cleaning a quail’s nose is not easy. The breathing grew worse and he would not eat. Tommy considered an antibiotic, but dosages are determined by the body weight of the patient, and since his patient’s body weight was just a féw ounces, he was reluctant to risk any medication. He did give Robert a tiny drop of brandy. At the end of the second day of misery, we had determined to call in an excellent local veterinarian if Robert was not better the following morning. Fortunately, the morning saw great improvement and by the next day Robert was himself again, eating as though to make up for the many meals he had missed. He preened and he preened, stopping now and then to coo or chirp. Another crisis had been weathered.
All this increased our feeling of responsibility for him, our realization of his dependence upon human beings, and, if such a thing is possible, our affection for the tiny thing. This seemed to work both ways. Let a member of the family be temporarily couch-bound with some minor ailment, such as a headache or a sprained ankle, and Robert took over. He would spend hours at a time perched on the arm of the davenport near the pillow, seldom leaving the room and, when he did leave for a few moments, coming back to hop up, walk carefully up the patient’s chest, to peer concernedly into his face, keeping his own talk muted and soft.
4
CHRISTMAS AND GRANDCHILDREN
CAPE COD favored us, as it so often does, with glorious pre-Christmas weather. One balmy sunny day after another gave Robert all the outdoor play he wanted. He ran through fallen leaves as any young thing does, and enjoyed above all else the woodpile. Over, under, through and around he went filling his crop with bugs of all sorts. No, that last statement is not accurate; he was quite selective as to bugs. The earwig is evidently as repulsive to bird as to man, and he left it strictly alone. Robert may have been a well-fed, protected house bird, but his instinct for finding food for himself remained acute. Spying a movement in the grass, imperceptible to us, he would run at top speed, make a three-point landing with feet and tail as brakes, and—pounce! Granddaddy longlegs seemed to be great delicacies. Making a beeline for the small center body part, he often had to swallow three or four times before the last wriggling leg disappeared. The process was one of concentrated enjoyment.
With his wonderfully protective coloring, it would have been almost impossible to locate him among leaves and twigs except for his almost constant chirps and trills. His plumage was by now very rich in tone, although the stripes down the sides of his face were still a soft coffee-with-cream color, instead of white as were those of his outdoor brothers. In fact, Tommy often wondered whether we should change his name to Roberta.
Several days before Christmas a crèche was set up on the buffet at the end of the dining room. The beautiful figures, hand carved by a dear friend, Mr. Herbert Plimpton, when he was in his eighties, stood before the stable, the whole scene backed with small pine-branch tips. So Robert had his introduction to the Christmas season. Since his sense of curiosity was so keen, we were not surprised when he spied it from the table and flew over to examine it. But we were surprised at his reaction. There was none of the excitement he always evinced when a bag of groceries was brought in; he just stood at the corner of the buffet and looked. Then very slowly he walked over to the crèche, looked at each figure carefully, then settled down in front of the shepherds, gazing at the Infant. And he stayed there. Mildred rushed for the camera, but she need not have been in any hurry, for the same picture was posed over and over. The end result was the Christmas card which both the Kienzles and I used a subsequent Christmas. Never once did he disturb a straw in the manger or touch a figure. Call it curiosity, call it fascination, call it what you will—he always seemed to fit into the Adoration.
The third day before Christmas, Robert walked out the door with Tommy after breakfast, started across the cement floor of the open porch and came to a dead stop with a little squawk of surprise. Out went the neck, and the investigation was on. On the floor lay a four-foot spruce tree, which Tommy had cut the previous evening. It took several minutes of stalking and investigating to convince Robert that everything was safe. How he enjoyed that tree! He played among the branches, neglecting even the woodpile. Every time he went out during the next three days, that tree was his objective. Here, his instinct seemed to fail him. Quail are definitely ground birds, but—perhaps because the spruce was lying down—Robert often nestled down on its upper side, sometimes almost going to sleep. (We often noticed that when he was apparently asleep on a lap, the eye
toward the owner of the lap would be tight shut, but the one toward the room would keep watch.)
On Christmas Eve, the tree was taken in the house after Robert had gone to bed on his red velvet hat. This timing was not from any sentimental desire to surprise him the next morning, but because Mildred and Tommy knew that the decorating would proceed much more easily without Robert’s help. They brought out the ornaments and went to work. Besides the grandchildren, who were coming the next day, Robert had to be kept in mind in the matter of decorations. No strands of tinsel were used, because, after all, they might possibly look too much like Robert’s favorite sauerkraut. That precaution may have been unnecessary, for Robert was wiser than we sometimes realized, and almost never was fooled by appearance alone. I contributed one ornament. I had found a fallen branch to which a perfect bird’s nest was firmly attached. Cutting off the branchlet which held the nest, I sprayed it with gilt and put inside it three small, fragile Christmas tree balls, one blue, one green and one red. We fastened the ornament near the top of the tree, which stood on an end table near the davenport. It looked lovely. Three little stockings were hung on the mantel—one for Thomas III, one for Kerry and one very wee one, really a doll’s stocking, for Robert.
All was finished in time for the family to attend the midnight service, and when they returned, after a last look at the tree and the piles of packages, they finally went to bed. What fatigue is as delightful as that which comes to all families about one o’clock of a Christmas morning? The grandchildren would be there tomorrow, the beautiful scene in the living room would be a shambles in no time, and all would be as it should. After all, who should expect more than a few hours’ sleep on this night of nights?
Breakfast was fairly early, since Tom and Nancy and the two children were to arrive midmorning, and then the wide-eyed ecstasy and the noisy excitement would begin, to continue throughout the holiday visit. This year would be the best yet, as a three-year-old girl and a five-year-old boy are masters of both ecstasy and excitement. But what about a six-month-old quail?
Robert did not get up until the family were at the breakfast table. He came into the room yawning as usual, hopped up on the table, had his orange juice and some toast and then—the dining room being a long ell off the living room—spied the tree. With a loud cry of surprise he flew over to the davenport with Tommy and Mildred following. He went slowly to the end where the tree was, giving the loud cries which sounded like “HUR-ry HUR-ry” with which he announced that the telephone was ringing, and then stood there looking, head first on one side, then on the other. Almost simultaneously he saw the stockings hanging on the mantel. Again he flew, this time up onto the mantel and, poking his head down to touch the little presents protruding from the top of each stocking, came at last to the tiny one belonging to him. A little sprig of chickweed was his treasure and he devoured it on the spot. He still seemed a bit bewildered and stood on the mantel looking over at the tree; then to their astonishment he flew over to it, did not stop on the davenport, but landed right on the gilded nest. Even though it happened before their eyes, it was hard for Mildred and Tommy to believe. Had I not seen him there myself, later in the day, I should hardly have believed it. Robert did not know what a nest was, nor what it was for. Was it the bright gilt that attracted him? Maybe. But there were other ornaments quite as glittery. No one knows the answer but Robert. The indisputable fact remains that he settled down in the nest, thereby adding greatly to the Christmas morning loveliness. It was not just a momentary interest, as he returned to it often as long as the tree was up.
As Mildred and Tommy went back to finish their breakfast, Mildred remarked, “It almost seems as though that little bird tried to express thanks for all our work of last night.”
“Yes,” agreed Tommy, “and we will have it all over again when we watch the children. I never dreamed we would have this pleasure twice.”
Robert had developed a technique during previous short visits from the children, who loved him dearly but loved him too much. His technique was to make a dash into the big bedroom and go under the big king-size bed to a spot in the geographical center of the sanctuary. That Christmas morning, that is exactly what he did. However, since he really loved human companionship, and since any excitement drew him like a magnet, he could not resist occasional forays into the middle of it all. How he loved the tissue paper, the ribbons and the boxes! However, he had no intention of being played with like a toy, and back he would go to safety. Let the grandchildren go outdoors to play with hew treasures, and out came Robert to the living room and companionship.
So went the day, and so, finally, came night and bedtime. The guest wing is at the opposite end of the house from his room, so he felt very safe when the small fry were finally calmed down and tucked in. That word “finally” was not used advisedly. The four tired grownups settled down for a game of bridge, which was just to Robert’s liking. He hopped up on Tommy’s shoulder, trilling and preening contentedly. The door of the wing opened: “I need a drink.” The drink was provided—for both children, of course—once more they were tucked in. Soon the door opened again: “I forgot to kiss Grandpa goodnight.” Grandpa was kissed, and again, quite forcefully this time, the tucking-in process was accomplished.
Once more they settled to their bridge game. Again they were conscious of the door opening, and sotto-voce among themselves agreed to ignore the small pajama-ed figure. It was Thomas III. He quietly and guiltily approached the table. Nothing was said; nobody noticed him. That is to say, no human being noticed him. Robert took matters into his own hands. Rising to his full height on Tommy’s shoulder, he proceeded to read the riot act to the little boy. He scolded, he squawked, no sweet little trills now; and with his head bobbing violently with every squawk, he very clearly implied that if nobody else took care of this situation he would. And he did. Thomas III stared in bewilderment for a few seconds, then turned and meekly went back to bed, and this time it was final.
The grownup managed to keep straight faces through it all, and as soon as the door closed Nancy said, “Well! Let’s take Robert home with us next week. He is a better disciplinarian than we are, evidently.”
After a few hands of bridge had been played, Robert’s curiosity about the fascinating disorder of the living room floor got the better of him, and down he went to investigate each toy, poke each movable gadget and enjoy the end of the day as he had its beginning, undisturbed and on his own.
When the family decided to have a last cup of coffee, they looked for Robert. Robert was not to be seen. Mildred called his name questioningly. As always, he answered. They finally located the sleepy little responses, and there he was, flattened out in the little gilded nest on the tree. It was such a picture that they left him there until their bedtime, then tenderly carried him to his red velvet hat.
Thus ended Robert’s first Christmas.
5
IN THE SPRING—A SURPRISE
SPRING APPROACHED and with it a little gnawing fear in the hearts of Robert’s human friends. Robert had come through the winter in fine spirits, if not in fine feather. In spite of having had few outdoor excursions and almost no really good dirt baths, he was as chipper and sweet as ever. With spring comes the molting season, and it certainly came. Feathers everywhere, first the little double-shafted breast and back feathers, and then more and more often a large wing feather. How a little bird of his size could shed enough feathers to fill a good-sized stationery box is a mystery. But he did. He looked bedraggled; for a time there was only one, rather ratty, tail-feather; but to our eyes he was still a delight. After all, families accept the awkward stages of their offspring with more or less equanimity and with no diminution of love and affection, and so it was with Robert.
The gnawing fear concerned all that was happening. Would Robert respond to the call of the season and the mating instinct? We had long agreed that some end to this delightful episode was inevitable, and if it should take this form we would accept it as perhaps best for Ro
bert. The outdoors quail began appearing in pairs rather than coveys, and we knew the season was upon us. As the weather permitted more time outside for him, we kept a careful eye out—just in case. But so far, he was not interested, in spite of hearing many a bobwhite call.
With the molting season we had expected his behavior to change with his plumage; we were prepared for him to be listless and mopey. However, this did not happen. Weeks of feather-dropping went by and Robert remained as gay as a cricket. We began thinking that possibly the good care and food he had had all through the winter accounted for his ebullient spirits. We should have knocked on wood.
One day suddenly Robert was very different. He did not get up until nearly noon, and when he did come out to the kitchen, he was not interested in orange juice or toast; not even in crisp lettuce. Robert did not feel well. As the day went on we became more concerned. Something was very wrong. He wanted to be held constantly. (His method of asking to be held was to back up to a human foot, squat down, and push with his tail till he was picked up and cuddled.) He wanted nothing to eat when lunch was served, and spent the time at the table nestled within the crook of Tommy’s elbow, making sad little sounds, not of contentment but of distress. By now there was a general feeling of anxiety throughout the house, as there is when a child is not himself.
That Quail, Robert Page 3
