Birdy

by William Wharton

  He hooks up one of the dogs this way, stands back, and pushes the plug into a 220-volt socket. The dog sort of jumps into the air, with its legs stiff and its eyes wide open, staring; then comes down on its feet, standing like a toy dog, its hair sticking out straight. After about a minute, Joe pulls the plug and the dog collapses into a heap.

  It’s a terrible thing to look at but can’t be any worse than being gassed. The trouble is you have it happening in front of your eyes. I’ve seen some cats smashed by cars but that wasn’t on purpose. This is awful.

  We’d reach in, choose one of the dogs, hook it up, the dog having no idea of what’s happening, and then ZAP, the end. Birdy and I hose the floor after each dog. We’re hearing rumors about the Nazis’ concentration camps; we’re running a concentration camp for dogs.

  We do all twelve dogs. After the first few, I’ve made up my mind to quit. Maybe somebody has to do it but I don’t want to be the one. Birdy is pale green in that dark cellar and we’re watching each other. I know we’re both torn between taking off and bursting out laughing or crying. I know Doc Owens and Joe are watching us.

  Doc Owens asks Joe what we’re going to do with the dead dogs. Joe says he’s made arrangements for that, too. Birdy and I carry the dead dogs out and put them in the back of the wagon. They seem one hell of a lot heavier dead than alive. We drag the heavy, bigger dogs out by the tails, then lift them together and push them through the door. It’s amazing the difference between dead things and live things.

  We jump on the back of the wagon and Joe drives us over to the next township. Birdy and I stand so we block the wire screen door. We don’t want anyone looking in and seeing all those dead dogs when we’re stopped at a red light.

  We drive to the big incinerator in Haverford Township. It’s one of those tall tower jobs that burns all the time. The smoke and smell are supposed to go straight up so nobody will smell it. We get the dogs out, two apiece, throw them over our shoulders and climb to the top on winding steps. The dogs are already getting cold and stiff. Up there is a manhole cover. Joe opens it and we can look straight down into the flames. We drop the dogs down that hole. It’s enough to turn a person religious.

  By the time we come up with the second set of dogs, it’s already smelly. We drop them in, put the cover back and Joe says, ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’ It’s about one-thirty in the afternoon now, so we get our hoagies and beer, and drive up behind the golf course again.

  Birdy starts off by telling Joe he’s not sure he can stick it out. The killing of the dogs is too much. Joe begins telling us stories about the things he’s seen as a policeman. He says we should quit if we really feel like it but we might as well get our feet wet here as anywhere else. We’re probably going to be cannon fodder for the war and we’d better get used to it now. He says this seeing dogs die and learning to live with it might actually save our lives later on. In twenty years on the force he’s seen all kinds of shit and life is no bag of cherries.

  Joe is medium height and thick, not fat, and he looks strong. He has a full head of graying hair cut short. He looks so much like a man that even the other policemen look like boys beside him. He has a deep voice and a deep laugh; he laughs a lot. We listen to his stories about all the rot going on in just our township and we know he isn’t lying. It’s the first time Birdy and I really begin to learn something of what a mean shitty world it is. What makes it all worse is Joe laughing at some of his worst stories and expecting us to laugh with him. We don’t have the guts to quit either. I think we can’t face up to having Joe laugh at us.

  Well, it turns out that all the smell from the incinerator doesn’t go up. A regular war starts between Upper Merion Township and Haverford Township. Joe is called before the commissioner and bawled out. The commissioner’s getting mixed reviews about the whole dogcatching operation anyway. Gardeners, mothers of small children are sending nice letters, but dog lovers are up in arms. They’re threatening to get the ASPCA after us. It looks like Birdy and I won’t have to quit after all. The dogcatching operation is suspended for three days. Birdy’s glad because he has a lot of work to do with his birds. He’s catching dogs so he can build that dream aviary of his; the same reason he was digging for buried treasure in the rain.

  I go over to his place and help him out some. He has more crazy canaries than you’d believe. Birdy gets all excited showing me some of the experiments he’s carrying out with weights on the birds’ legs and pulling flight feathers from the wings to see how little a bird needs to carry a heavy weight. He’s also built some beautiful models. He wants me to help when he turns one of these into a working model big enough for him to fly. He wants me to help with the launching. I say I’ll do it when we get some time off from dogcatching. I’ve got an idea for an underwater diving bell myself and I’m going to need help when I try it out. We agree to do both those things when the dogcatching thing folds.

  The next Monday we’re back on the wagon again. Joe tells us he’s found another place to get rid of the dogs. Birdy wants us to take the afternoons off and ride out to the Main Line where all the millionaires live and dump the dogs there. If we could do it, that’d be fun. We’d start all kinds of new breeds mixed in with French poodles and Pekineses.

  We catch a truckful by noon. The dogs are getting smarter; survival of the fittest is beginning to set in. We go out to Doc Owens’s. He’s ready to go through the roof after keeping all those dogs five days. He rants and raves at Joe. Joe smiles, shakes his head, and promises we’d take them all today. Joe’s enjoying Doc Owens’s being mad.

  For all the noise the dog lovers are making, there’s nothing being done about it. Just about all those dogs we caught are still there, ready to be killed. To tell the truth, most people are glad to get rid of their mutts.

  That afternoon at Doc Owens’s is like a combination of Sing Sing and a slaughterhouse. We’re piling up dead dogs three high. The smell of burning flesh and hair is sickening. The poor dogs begin to catch on to what’s happening and start trying to fight away from the alligator clips. One beast, half setter, part shepherd, part wolf, gets so mean we can’t get the clips on him and Doc Owens gives him a shot of strychnine. He goes out about the same as the ones with the electricity.

  Some dogs, though, still walk right up, smile at us and wag their tails, looking up at us expectantly, as if we’re going to put them on a leash and take them for a walk. Some walk; a walk right into nowhere. Birdy and I have to keep going outside for breaths of air and to hold ourselves together.

  When it’s done, we carry all the dogs into the truck. We pack them in tight and even throw a few onto the floor in front beside Joe. It’s three-thirty before we get them all in. Joe starts driving out into the country past Secane. Joe doesn’t tell anybody anything until he’s ready, so we don’t ask questions. I’m thinking he’s found another incinerator, or is going to pile them up in a dump.

  Slowly, as we get further out from any houses, we begin to pick up the most horrendous smell I’ve ever smelled. Nothing can describe it. We go onto a small dirt road and pull up into an open place in front of a stable. There are spavined-looking horses tied around to the buildings. The whole place is swarming with big blue flies. Usually there are flies around horses, but not like this, and this smell is something else. It doesn’t smell like horses.

  But it’s horses all right. It’s horses being cut up. This is a slaughteryard for old plugs. I look over at Birdy and he’s absolutely green. Joe jumps out of the truck and seems to know everybody. Joe knows everybody, everywhere. I guess that’s part of being a cop; probably, too, he buys meat for his dogs out here.

  We get off the wagon and are immediately covered by flies. It’s a hot day and they’re drinking our sweat, then they start on our blood. They’re big flies with shiny blue-purple bodies and dark red heads. There’s no way to get away from the bastards; they fly into our noses, eyes, ears. Joe comes back and tells us to get up in the wagon again. He drives us around in back of long s
heds. Inside we can see men standing in blood, hacking away at huge chunks of horse flesh.

  Behind the shed, there’s something that looks like a gigantic meat-grinding machine; it’s run by a gasoline motor. Joe jumps out, walks over and pulls a cord, the way you’d start a motorboat or a lawn mower, and it starts chugging, slow then fast, a one lunger. Blue smoke comes out in clouds. Joe switches it into gear and the grinder begins making a tremendous racket. Bits of ground flesh leak from small holes in the bottom.

  There’s a huge funnel-like hole at the top of the grinder, almost big enough to put a human body into it. Joe tells us to get the dogs out of the wagon. We drag them over and he starts dropping them into the funnel. Jesus, he’s still smiling! He’s holding the dogs away from himself, to keep the blood, shit, and slobber from getting on him, and dropping them in. He’s in his uniform shirt with his badge and regulation pants. His belt and pistol are around his waist and he’s not wearing his cap. He glistens in the sunlight, dropping the dogs into the machine. Thin lines of dog flesh, mixed in with hair, are coming out the bottom. Birdy and I are staggering back and forth with the dogs, trying to pretend we’re men and trying not to vomit all over the place. The stink, the flies, and now grinding up the dogs; we’re earning our dollar an hour. Joe motions us to help him put the dogs in; he steps back and rubs his hands together.

  We grab hold of the dogs. The best way is to lower them in by the tail. The sound of the grinding is grisly. We get it done somehow. Birdy and I are glad to climb into the front seat of the wagon while Joe talks with some of the men standing around. We’re never going to make it as men in this world. The seats are plastic and hot. Birdy says if we can get used to this we can get used to anything. That’s after I tell him we’ll get used to it.

  We’re just about getting our stomachs settled when Joe comes over and invites us into the shed to watch how it’s all done. He sees our faces and starts laughing. He slides into the wagon; we climb out onto the back, and take off.

  While we’re cleaning the wagon that afternoon, I ask Joe what they do with all the meat they grind up in the grinder. Joe says they make dog food with it.

  The days pass; Birdie and I try everything. I sit for hours with treat food in the dish. So long as I stay near it, Alfonso hovers in the back of his cage raising the front edges of his wings and opening his beak in a threatening growl. As soon as I go away he comes over and eats. It’s hard to believe he’s the same species as Birdie. Birdie becomes more and more fascinated by him as he remains hostile to us. She lands on top of his cage to watch him and queeps, peeps, trills; everything she can come up with. The only answer is a sudden lunge when he thinks she’s not paying attention.

  I decide that maybe if I try starving him for a day, then offer him food, he’ll be more cooperative. No; he just acts meaner than usual. I try two days without food. Nothing. You just can’t keep food away from a canary for three days. I try giving him special tidbits like bits of apple or celery top or a dandelion leaf but it doesn’t matter. He’ll eat it only when I’ve removed myself to a distance. He’ll eat it, keeping an eye on me every minute, as if he expects me to charge up and take it back. He most definitely is the mad bird.

  St Valentine’s Day comes. It’s the traditional day for beginning to breed birds if they’re going to be kept inside, but Alfonso stays mean, and keeps apart from us. I give both Birdie and Alfonso a big leaf of dandelion that day. It’s supposed to get them all hot for breeding. Mr Lincoln told me that. He also told me it’s French and means ‘lion’s tooth’. That’s the kind of thing I like to know. He told me not to eat any dandelion leaves or flowers myself or I’d get all hot and bothered and maybe wet the bed. He said the French also call dandelion ‘pissenlit’, which means ‘piss in the bed’. Urinate is the way Mr Lincoln said it. He must be the smartest man I’ve ever met.

  I’m dying to get Alfonso out so I can watch him fly. One afternoon, I can’t wait any longer. I open the door to his cage, then go back to my corner in the aviary. It doesn’t take him long to figure out the door is open. In about five seconds he’s on the door sill looking around. He’s awfully suspicious and looks over to where I am. Just to be safe, I hold Birdie in my hand. Finally, he decides to take a chance, and shoots out like a dart for the highest perch across the aviary. He wipes his beak all over the perch; showing it’s his and maybe smelling Birdie out. He looks down at me. The way he looks down, with his pointed head, thin body, and long legs he makes me tense up a bit. Then he pulls one of his wings-folded sky-dives down to the food dish and water cup. He stomps all around, looking for traps I guess, then eats and drinks. He’s an incredibly messy slob; scattering seeds over the floor before he finds a seed he’ll accept. After he’s eaten, he starts hopping over in our direction, like he’s preparing to charge. Birdie makes a few queeps and I make some myself. He cocks his head from side to side trying to get a good look at us. Up till now, he’s usually looked at us straight on, more or less just to see if we were going to make any fast moves or try to get behind him. He doesn’t care about us individually; we’re just a vague danger he wants to be ready for. That’s the way it is. If you only look out for yourself you’re a lot safer. You’re vulnerable when you let yourself go out.

  So, for the first time, Alfonso gives us a real going over. He’s trying to find out what the hell we actually are. After five minutes of this, he flies up on a near perch and scans us from a new angle. We don’t move. Finally, he gives a rusty peep. It sounds like a voice hailing a ship after spending twenty years on a desert island. It’s the most reluctant peep I’ve ever heard. You feel he wishes he could put it back into his beak almost as soon as he’s made it. Birdie and I peep back enthusiastically. We peep back and forth a few times but he gets tired of that, too. He flies over onto the top of his cage, hops down onto the sill, then hops into the cage. We wait. I know he’s testing me to see if I’ll jump up to close the door while he’s in there. I can’t see into the cage from where I am but I’m sure he’s in the back, waiting to spring out if I make a move toward the cage.

  He comes out again. I think about letting go of Birdie but I’m afraid. Mr Lincoln’s probably right. I don’t want to take any chances with Birdie. I wait until Alfonso’s on a perch away from the cage, then I carefully get up and put Birdie into the little cage. She gives me every kind of nasty peep she can muster but I turn around and go out of the aviary. I want to watch what Alfonso does when he thinks I’m not there.

  At first, all he does is enjoy the size of the aviary. He flies from one end to the other, twisting in mid-flight and catching himself at the end of each run. He flies straight up, trying to catch himself a high place under the bed springs. He does quite a few of his straight drops. He can really fly. He’s like a test pilot checking to see if all the mechanisms are still in order after a plane’s been grounded for a while.

  He goes down and splashes more seed around and eats a few. He washes his face off in the water cup but he doesn’t take a bath. He ruffles out his feathers and combs them down again; fast, nothing like the leisured preening of Birdie.

  Birdie in the meanwhile is practically hanging out of her cage trying to see him. I think she’s gotten the idea of my strategy. At least this way we can watch him do things.

  After a few more gymnastics and some more exploration he lands on top of Birdie’s cage. She queeps madly. He hops around and shits so he just misses her head. Then he jumps over the edge and slides down the bars on the front of the cage till he can look into the empty treat cup on her perch. Birdie hops near him and gives him a gracious peep; he gives her a half-hearted growl. She stands her ground and they stay like that, next to each other; Birdie queeping and he looking at her as if she’s in a zoo. He scrambles around the side of the cage to the regular food dish and Birdie hops down to join him. Just to be sociable she dips her head into the dish for a seed. Alfonso flies into a regular rage. He lets go, makes a flurry of wings, and screeches. He attacks the side of the cage. Birdie jumps away
. She recovers and cowers at the other end of the cage. Stupid Alfonso keeps attacking for about five minutes. He flies back to the floor of the aviary, then attacks again. He hangs onto the door as if he’s trying to pull it open. I begin to think there, just for a minute, he might manage it. It’s a snap-swing hinge and I’m getting to the point where I’ll believe anything. I’m also beginning to think maybe I’ve made a mistake. He seems hopeless.

  Things go on the same way for a week. Birdie trying to be nice and Alfonso being a bastard. To give Birdie some exercise, I take her out of the aviary at night while I’m doing my home-work or working on my models, to let her fly around. She keeps flying to the wire of the aviary, trying to attract Alfonso’s attention. I’m coming along fine with my flying model. This one flies, but in a long down glide. The rubber-band motor doesn’t give enough flapping power for lift. I don’t know how much weight it could carry, not much. I have to get some calculations on the weight and density of birds.

  In the evenings, when I let her out to fly, I turn the light on in the aviary. Birdie keeps flying over and hanging onto the wire. She peeps and queeps until it’s embarrassing but Alfonso just ignores her. You’d think he didn’t like birds. He doesn’t seem to know what it is to be lonely, or even care.

  I’ve about decided to give up and take him back to Mr Lincoln when something happens. It’s a Friday night. I’m in bed reading. The light on my bed is the only light in the room.

  At first I think I hear water running. I listen hard, then realize it’s coming from under me. The sound increases in volume, then develops into the unmistakable sound of a long rolling note. Alfonso has finally decided to sing. He sings as if he’s trying not to wake us, as if he doesn’t want anyone to hear; as if he’s a trombone with a mute, practicing some complex piece of music to himself before a performance.