After a while, we’d pretty much resigned ourselves to Balto being lost. My wife phoned the next door neighbors in case he’d shown up at their feeder, and I turned his pictures or tore them up.
The crow noticed how mopey I was and helpfully vomited a capsule of recent pickings from his antelingual pouch directly into my mouth.
“Pfwanks, Kwow” I said, spitting it out.
The next several days I spent noticing the similarities between the call of several native birds and Balto’s distress call. I figured the best medicine would be to take the digging bar and clamshell diggers across the road and begin anew the process of repairing the fence we paid some hapless idiots to construct a few years ago. Every time I go over there and view their handiwork my mind is thoroughly clouded by hate, and the knowledge that if any country bigger than El Salvador invades the US, we’re absolutely dicked. For all the rebel flag beltbuckle and deerhunting lardass swagger, nobody around here knows how to staple a fucking wire to a post, or exert themselves to do anything more than climb in and out of a truck wallpapered with bullshit stickers subliminally advertising the driver’s lack of a functional penis.
I hated and dug, hated and dug.
Shortly the hate gave way to a species of referred pain that meandered from the general area of my right kidney, around my ass, looping under my crotch and terminated in my right testicle. Inguinal hernia, I thought. Requires a.) studied inactivity, or b.) surgery.
I just kept going, because fuck lying around and thinking about some jerk seeing him and shooting him for the hell of it, in the “Look! It’s a thing!” way the killhappy settlers to this region mowed down all the native psittacids.
My wife had just gotten off the phone notifying the local veterinary offices and our excuse for a department of animal control when the next door neighbors rang up.
Some kids had found Balto in a tree, and having no inguinal hernias to speak of, shimmied up and retrieved him. Once they got him indoors, he gratefully permitted them to hold and play with him.
Their father told them “That’s somebody’s baby. We’ll be getting a call for him.”
They had a parrot of their own, who didn’t care to be handled much, and when we came to pick Balto up, he was enjoying the attention they were lavishing upon him. A girl of about twelve was holding him to her face while he made kissing noises.
The look she gave me when I walked in was one of undistilled preadolescent hatred; the kind that does not brook intrusion upon the orderly, safe confines of its world.
“He’s very old” I said, trying to work in the subtext he will break your heart.
We thanked them for returning him, and decided the kids deserved some kind of reward for giving him up.
Being a shallow git, my first thought was
“Cash.
I like cash.
They’ll like cash.”
My wife ordered them a “Stokes Guide to The Birds of North America”, and I ghostwrote an inscription from Balto:
Thank you for returning me to my slaves. I honestly don’t know what they’d do with themselves without me here eating their walls and furnishings. Here is a book describing some of the birds I encountered during my vacation.
11 comments
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June 10, 2012 at 5:57 pm
Jolene
Wonderful news that you got him back. Had been feeling bad for you.
June 10, 2012 at 8:28 pm
coozledad
it’s a huge relief. We’ve had him for going on thirteen years, and managed to pull him through a couple of health crises. he seems to be in good shape,now, except for a couple of feathers on his head he lost to a small group of crows who mobbed him when he escaped.
I think they were just curious. Otherwise they’d have killed and eaten him.
June 11, 2012 at 7:00 am
Minnie
Perfect.
June 11, 2012 at 12:16 pm
Hattie
Awww. Nice. Coming over from Nancy!
June 11, 2012 at 6:05 pm
coozledad
Thanks Hattie and Minnie.
I’m still working on a fence, but one closer to the house, so I can take agony breaks.
(It’s not that bad, but the idea of an opiate soaked future is starting to seem attractive)
June 11, 2012 at 9:23 pm
imaginista
I heart happy endings!!!
June 11, 2012 at 10:28 pm
rds (@ranaverde)
Hooray! (And I love the inscription in the book. Perfect.)
July 12, 2012 at 9:33 am
Laurie
Thanks for the good story. From this Marylander–does he speak Baltimorese–e.g., hon, warsher, and zinc (sink)? Wonder if he went danny oshun (down to the ocean).
Can you take and post a picture of the prodigal, for his fan club?
July 17, 2012 at 6:39 pm
Rosie West
crikey, what a palaver to leave a comment. Never had to log in before. This is my third attempt. Anyway, I’m back again and been catching up with your posts. Couldn’t comment on all of them but chose this because it’s as brilliant as I’ve come to expect, coozledad. And so delighted you got Balto back. Loved the reward.
By the way, being on the wrong side of the dislodged jetstream, we’ve had rain and chilly grey skies in Blighty for well over two months. As a nation, we’re ready to top ourselves.
July 17, 2012 at 6:53 pm
coozledad
Rose:It seems like there’s some kind of firewall between different blogging platforms.I thought about you the other day when I found a silver cigarette case and Ronson lighter we bought at an antique auction several years back. It belonged to a guy who was a tobacco purchaser for Lorillard.
The case is engraved with a pair of Thai dancers, and is very heavy. It would probably hold about ten old-school cigarettes sans filter.
I’ll post a picture of it. You may have it if you want to lug the thing around.
July 18, 2012 at 7:21 am
Rosie West
That is the kindest thought, cooz. I’m torn because although I’d adore to have any souvenir of your magical domain, I’d hate to put you to the trouble and expense of shipping it over. Post the pic and I’ll just treasure the offer!
On the techie side of things, I discovered that I already have a wordpress imprint called ‘bitchblog’ on which there is just one post from over five years ago complaining that I felt like I’d landed on planet dweeb and couldn’t work out how to use it. I still can’t. I know that wordpress is way superior to blogspot but it does have rather a dull interface with the world. I’m gonna have to stick with being a client of the dreaded Google Dark Empire.