Kansas City Freelance Writer Liz Craig

A couple of blog posts ago, I wrote that my feathered friend, Buster the parakeet, was in a bad way. Puffy, shivering, peepless, not to mention chirpless, he looked as if he was bound for the Great Birdcage in the Sky.

But thanks to the antibiotic and antifungal liquids I got from the nice bird vet at a Waldo animal hospital, he’s now healthy and sassy as ever. But during the 10-day course of treatment, I was sure he thought me a torturer, not a caregiver.

Twice a day, I filled the syringe, then, with a washcloth protecting my hand, chased him around the cage and captured him. At first, when he was sick, he was too weak to resist. But toward the end of the treatments, he was squawking like a bald eagle and fighting like a champ to escape my washcloth trap. I steeled myself to his cries for help and pried his beak open to squirt in a drop or two of medicine. I felt mean, especially since at first, he didn’t seem to be getting better, despite the daily tussle.

But on Day Eight, he chirped once. Hallelujah! This came like a beam of sunshine after a solid week of silence from the normally loquacious little bird. By Day 10, he was chirping, singing, and jumping from perch to perch, rather than sitting there like a little old man with his head low. All was well, thank heavens.

Years ago, I paid about $20 for my pretty green parakeet. He has given me endless pleasure over those years, as he sings cheerily all day in my office. Some would say, “What? You paid $72 for the vet, and more for the meds? Why didn’t you just flush him down the toilet?” To those people, I say, “Would you flush your dog down the toilet if it got sick? No? I thought not.”

Our pets are our children, our brothers and sisters. We don’t abandon them if they need of help. A friend of mine paid more than $1,500 in vet bills for her Siamese cat, whose frightening respiratory symptoms vanished each time he went to the vet. Finally, she said to Calhoun, “Listen, pal. I’ve spent all the money I’m going to on you. You are either going to get better or die.” Kind of tough love, but wonder of wonders, he got better. Tell me they don’t understand what we say.

I don’t know if I’d pay $1,500 to cure Buster, but let’s hope it never comes to that. Today he is singing. And the pleasures of this day are enough for me.

This entry was posted on Thursday, January 12th, 2012 at 1:00 pm and is filed under Other Stuff. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.