Pets in a Pickle

by Malcolm D Welshman

  Liza didn’t squawk so much if let out; so for the sake of our eardrums, she was allowed more and more freedom.

  Having given the room the once-over to make sure Nelson or Queenie and her friends weren’t around to upset her, she’d fix her beady eye on me, give a ‘Here I come’ squawk and soar across to land on the back of the settee. Here, she’d bob up and down, her three remaining crest feathers raised, her naked neck stretched out. Her crop often bulged, the white gleam of lumps of peanut showing through the thin grey skin like a nodular abscess about to burst.

  With scarcely any plumage left to savage, she decided to have a go at the three remaining crest feathers on the top of her head. To achieve this required considerable dexterity. She would balance on one leg, raise the other foot and tilt her head down to grab a crest feather in her claws. Then she’d tug and tug, pulling her head lower and lower as she tried to wrench the feather out. More often than not, she’d yank so hard that she’d lose her balance and topple forward, cartwheeling down the side of the settee only to scramble back up with an indignant squawk and try again.

  ‘She needs more distractions,’ stated Lucy.

  ‘I’ve been through all that with Mrs Smethurst,’ I said. ‘Short of another bird as a companion … hey, maybe that’s the answer.’

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ warned Lucy.

  I shrugged. ‘Shouldn’t worry. It’s highly unlikely, as cockatoos don’t come cheap.’

  ‘No, they come bloody squawking,’ complained Lucy, stuffing her fingers in her ears as Liza let rip again – this time alarmed by the sight of a lion stalking across the TV screen.

  It was barely a week later when Major flew into our lives. A client from another practice heard I was a ‘bird man’ and phoned to ask if I’d be interested in taking on her cockatoo. I went round to see the bird.

  ‘Does Major … er … squawk?’ I asked, standing in front of the cage. He had been suspiciously quiet since my arrival.

  ‘Very rarely,’ said the lady and went on to explain that Major had been her son’s but now that he’d left home there was no one to devote time to the bird.’

  ‘Doesn’t feather pluck I see.’ Major had a full compliment of smart, white feathers and a fine sweep of a yellow-tipped crest.

  ‘No, he’s got no vices,’ said the lady vaguely. ‘Nothing to speak of that is.’

  Well, there was a vice … a vice not mentioned … a vice only discovered when I got Major home.

  We were in the kitchen when a commotion erupted from the sitting room. It sounded like someone beating the hell out of a tin kettle.

  ‘What on earth’s that racket?’ said Lucy almost dropping the eggs she’d been taking out of the fridge. I ran in to investigate.

  For once, Liza was actually quiet, watching Major, her two remaining crest feathers raised in bewilderment. He, on the other hand, was creating the noise, ramming his beak into his food hopper, beating it against the sides like some demented pop group’s drummer.

  ‘Perhaps that’s why he’s called Major,’ said Lucy, when she came through.

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Drum Major,’ she explained as the cockatoo beat another tattoo in his hopper, scattering sunflower seed in all directions.

  But Major hadn’t finished yet. He looked up as if to make sure we were watching and then launched himself forward from his perch while still hanging on. The momentum in his dive allowed him to flip under the perch and haul himself back up the other side using his beak. He was like a Catherine wheel. A spinning blur of white; a real comic turn. Quite amazing.

  It was a trick that subsequently never failed to make us smile, especially on those occasions when it didn’t quite come off and he was left swinging backwards and forwards, clinging to his perch upside down.

  Liza chose to ignore this new joker and, after that initial silence, returned to her daily torrent of screeches directed solely at us.

  Still, I put their cages side by side for a week and then decided to put the birds together, but in a new cage.

  ‘Why a new one?’ queried Lucy.

  ‘Bit of psychology,’ I explained. ‘Meeting on new territory should help to lessen any aggression between them. There, look at that.’

  Having been put in with Major, Liza had now run up to him, her remaining crest feather raised, her beak giving a friendly click-click. ‘They’re making friends already.’

  But Major wasn’t having any of it; he huddled up against the side of the cage, his strident hiss making it clear he had no wish for flirtations from his Antipodean sister, already undressed, flaunting her naked flesh at him.

  That night, each bird roosted at opposite ends of the perch. We were woken at 5.00am by our own dawn chorus of screeches emanating from the sitting room.

  ‘Now what?’ moaned Lucy, burying her head under the pillow while her heel, planted firmly in the small of my back, ensured I was ejected to investigate.

  Liza ran along the perch to give me a bob, her right wing dripping blood. Huddled at the other end sat Major, the picture of innocence, except his beak was smeared with red.

  The wound wasn’t serious – a nick in the skin – so I decided to risk leaving the birds together – a foolish move. Another commotion in the early hours of the following morning, combined with Lucy’s heel in my back again, forced me to change my mind. Liza was getting beaten up and my back was getting sore. The birds were separated.

  From that moment on, they totally ignored each other. We would come into the room and they would each vie for our attention, screeches from Liza, hopper bashing and perch somersaults from Major. Each seemed to spur the other on to new heights of frenzy.

  Lucy and I were finally driven to distraction when both birds added the other’s repertoire to its own so that we ended up with two bobbing, somersaulting, hopper-bashing, screeching cockatoos. Major, having the more powerful lungs, left us feeling as if Big Ben had been striking on our mantelpiece – we were totally tolled off and wrung out. All too much.

  In desperation, I phoned a local garden centre that I knew had an aviary in its greenhouse section – designed to give a tropical ambience to the purchase of trays of pansies and petunias. The owner was more than willing to take on two cockatoos.

  ‘For free you say?’

  For free, he was assured.

  ‘What’s wrong with them then?”

  ‘Well they do screech a bit.’

  ‘That’s not a problem.’

  ‘And one of them is a bit bald.’

  ‘Bald? How bald?’

  How could I describe Liza’s condition other than as oven-ready? There was no way I could cover it – or her – up.

  So Major went and Liza stayed. She seemed delighted at the arrangement; after all, she now had our undivided attention once more, and she could tweak out any new feathers which tried to grow through to her heart’s content, without interruption. We gave up hope of ever getting her to stop.

  I wasn’t too sure when the idea of the party was first mooted. It was a bit like a sea of whispers. I overheard Mandy and Lucy discussing something down in the ward but they abruptly stopped conferring as soon as I walked in. Both looked guilty, so I knew something was afoot. But at least they were now talking to each other. It was as if the incident with the little tortoiseshell cat had been a watershed. Since then, Lucy had been in a much better frame of mind, helped by a more co-operative Mandy who now tended to share her responsibilities with Lucy rather than treat her as the general dogsbody. She even permitted Lucy to take charge of the anaesthetic machine during a few routine operations – closely supervised, of course. But, nevertheless, it proved there had been a significant shift in their relationship as the anaesthetic machine was usually jealously guarded by Mandy – very much her baby, and not to be tampered with.

  It was Beryl who let it slip. She had just finished smoking her coffee-break cigarette, having battled to puff the smoke out through a half-open back door while struggling with the door to s
top the wind blowing it back in. Someone needed to tell her that her raven hair, normally heavily lacquered to her head, had sprouted wings and looked as if it was about to take off. But not me. No way.

  ‘I don’t know what to wear,’ she suddenly said, giving me the eye as if I was about to inspire her. ‘Fancy dress parties aren’t my sort of thing.’

  ‘Party? What’s this about a party?

  ‘You don’t know?’ She saw my quizzical look. ‘No, you don’t, obviously. You’d better ask Lucy.’ With that she quickly shimmied back up to reception.

  ‘It’s Mandy’s idea,’ said Lucy when I eventually tracked her down in the dispensary making up a prescription – another job that Mandy now let her do unsupervised. ‘She fancies having a bit of a knees-up.’

  I shrugged. ‘But where’s she going to have it? I hardly think Crystal and Eric would let her hold a party up in the flat. It would disturb all the in-patients. Let alone the neighbours.’

  A block of flats had been built in the grounds sold off from Prospect House. People were forever complaining about the noise of dogs and cats. But, as Crystal said, we were there first. When the people bought those flats they knew exactly what they were letting themselves in for. Nevertheless, Crystal did her best to keep things on an even keel; a party in the flat would be rocking the boat too much.

  ‘The flat’s too small anyway,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Exactly.’

  I saw her looking at me in a funny way. I knew Lucy well enough by now to know that look. It didn’t bode well. A niggle of worry began to worm through me.

  ‘Lucy … you’re not suggesting …’

  ‘Well, Willow Wren would be perfect. It’s certainly big enough.’

  ‘Crystal wouldn’t allow it.’ I saw that look flash back into her eyes. ‘Lucy! You haven’t …’

  ‘She said it was fine by her but to ask you. She and Eric are looking forward to coming.’

  Hmm. Seems it was a done deal. I could hardly turn round and veto it without appearing to be a complete party pooper.

  ‘And what’s this about it being fancy dress?’

  ‘Mandy’s idea … thought fancy dress would be a bit of fun. What were you wearing when the ship went down?’

  It was enough to make my heart sink, let alone a ship. I had visions of Willow Wren ending up a wreck.

  In the event, it all went quite smoothly, and most people made an effort to dress up. With her wings of black hair, I thought Beryl could have come as a crow’s nest. But she turned up in her standard black trousers and top purporting to be the ship’s cat. With her long, claw-like nails and whiskery face she quite looked the part. Eric came as a stoker; he wore a dirty vest hanging out of grubby trousers, his face smeared with coal dust.

  ‘Doesn’t look much different to normal,’ Beryl whispered to me, hand cupped to the side of her mouth. Catty, very catty … she was playing her part well.

  Crystal cruised through the crowd, very debonair as the ship’s captain in crisp, white uniform and gold braid on those lovely shaped shoulders of hers. She could grab my bulwarks any time.

  Lucy ummed and aaahed for days beforehand, wondering what to wear. In the end, she decided on a long, white nightgown and powdered her face and arms with flour.

  ‘What are you supposed to be?’ I queried unwisely as she thumped down the stairs, resembling a rolled-out slab of pastry.

  ‘A ship’s ghost, of course.’

  She was thoroughly miffed when Mandy materialised in similar mode though, with her dumpy figure and naturally pallid complexion, Mandy looked the more frightful of the two.

  And me? Well, I plumped for Long John Silver. I had some baggy breeches, a large buckled belt, a black, leather waistcoat and eye-patch. I stopped short of doing the one-legged bit in case I got legless.

  ‘What about having Liza on your shoulder?’ joked Lucy. ‘I know she’s not an Amazon Green but she’d do.’

  The idea didn’t appeal; I had visions of Liza being frightened by the crowd and flying around, panic stricken, landing, claws outstretched, in someone’s hair, à la Mrs Smethurst. Instead, I visited the theatrical outfitters in Westcott.

  ‘I’m afraid the best parrots are doing the rounds in rehearsals for Treasure Island,’ apologised the assistant. ‘This is all we have left.’

  I viewed the two stuffed birds on offer. The African Grey shed a cloud of feathers as soon as I picked it up. Not a pretty polly.

  ‘How about the Amazon Green, then?’ said the assistant, holding up the other bird.

  By the looks of it, the parrot hadn’t stood up too well to the ravages of countless pantomimes. Its emerald plumage was dull and dusty with a crumpled appearance accentuated by a wodge of flock sticking out between its legs and an eye dangling by a thread. But better the bird in hand than the one on the counter, so I hired it.

  With the party in full swing, I paraded around with the Amazon Green wired to the shoulder of my jacket. Liza squawked with jealousy when she saw it but was soon overwhelmed by the attention given her by the partygoers. She was inundated with titbits. The following morning, I was to discover her cage floor littered with crisps, cocktail sticks with bits of pineapple still skewered to them, Twiglets, sausage rolls and, smeared to the bars, dollops of pâté.

  Mandy floated over to me, merry on vodka and lime. ‘Who’s a pretty boy?’ she said, her unfocussed eyes staring up. Now was she referring to me or the parrot on my shoulder? I assumed me, as I didn’t have an eye dangling out of its socket on a thin twist of wire. But it was to the bird she was giving the eye – her eye – as in the next second she reached up and yanked a bunch of feathers out of its tail.

  ‘Mandy, what on earth …’

  But she’d gone, vanished in a swirl of sheets, the feathers doing likewise as they floated to the floor. Cursing, I craned my neck round to peer at the mutilated parrot only to discover someone had smeared cottage cheese down my jacket in imitation of bird droppings.

  Then Liza was let out. The first I knew of it was when she landed on my shoulder with a friendly squawk, bobbed her tail and produced her own version of cottage cheese down my back.

  Mandy hovered into view again, even more high spirited. ‘Wooo … wooo …’ she said, raising her hands in the air, fingers fluttering. ‘I’m a ship’s ghost. Wooo …wooo …’ She moved closer. ‘Wooo … wooo …’ If she was trying to scare me, it didn’t work. But it certainly frightened Liza. With a shrill screech, she lashed out at the fluttering fingers.

  ‘Wooo … ouch … you little sod.’ The fingers were snatched away, one dripping blood.

  The next morning, with hammers in my head, I surveyed the mortal remains of the Amazon Green. It was tail-less, exposing a strand of rusty wire; the dangling eye had been lost, revealing a white socket; the other eye was now loose and hanging out at an odd angle as if the bird was trying to study its toes; and its lower mandible had become dislocated and so twisted that the parrot appeared to be sneering at me. Worse still, more stuffing had worked loose so that the bird looked as if it were trying to give birth to an eiderdown.

  ‘I can’t possibly take it back in this state,’ I moaned.

  ‘Well, you’re a vet. Stitch it up,’ said Lucy, less than sympathetic.

  I took the parrot into work and attempted to operate on it, suturing with some nylon, but my trembling hands weren’t up to it. The more I bundled the stuffing back and stitched across it, the more distorted the bird became. Its head swelled up and curled over like a dying duck while its back developed a hump worthy of Notre Dame’s bell ringer. All resemblance to a parrot was lost.

  Back home, I phoned the theatrical outfitters and explained the situation. The assistant was most sympathetic.

  ‘It was on its last legs anyway,’ he said. ‘So I doubt if it would have survived another panto season.’ He must have heard Liza squawking in the background as he suddenly added, ‘Have you got a live one there?’

  ‘Yes. A cockatoo.’

  ‘Well, let us know
if she ever snuffs it. We’ll pay a good price.’

  I didn’t elaborate on Liza’s condition; she’d never make a mounted specimen. But at least from that moment on, whenever her squawking provoked me to yell at her, it gave new meaning to the phrase ‘Get stuffed’, since I now knew where it could be done.

  ‘So what are you going to do with it?’ asked Lucy, looking at the disfigured Amazon Green. ‘Throw it away?’

  That had been my intention.

  ‘Why not let Liza have it?’ she continued. ‘After all, it can’t do her any harm. It’s not as if it can peck her back.’

  Liza stared suspiciously as the Amazon Green, wired to a broom handle, was propped up against her cage. But friendly as ever, she waddled up to the bars, raised her one remaining crest feather, and gave a little cluck. The lack of response clearly puzzled her. She gave another cluck – this time it was a little more strident. Still no reaction. Cautiously, she pushed her beak between the bars and tweaked one of its feathers. The parrot rocked on his handle. Liza scuttled back down her perch.

  As the parrot slowly came to a halt, Liza advanced again, clearly fascinated despite the creature’s very un-parrot-like shape. She cooed and clucked at it; she snuggled up against the bars; she reached through and nibbled another of its feathers. Then, with a frustrated screech, she yanked. Her head bobbed up, the feather dangling from her beak. She snatched it into her claws, stared down at it with one coal-black eye, ran her tongue over it, and then proceeded to mash it into a pulp before dropping it to the floor. Then, with scarcely a pause, she stretched through the bars and tweaked out another one.

  Liza now had a friend unable to stop her advances. She spent hours preening it, gradually stripping it of its plumage while, untouched, hers began to grow through.

  However, much to our disappointment, she still demanded attention from us. So the screeching never stopped. It began to wear us down.

  I took to walking round with wax plugs wedged in my ears. Lucy wore ear muffs. But when Joan popped round and I couldn’t understand a word she was saying, I realised something more constructive had to be done.