From Friend to Flesh
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~Ethan Edwards
Since my youth I have had an affinity for observing; the world was full of information, but my eyes were drawn to Life. Life has always fascinated me, each organism finding its own unique way to survive against the struggle of death. The process of forming a bond and caring for another was a process I loved being a part of. After having my head in the clouds for months, I had finally gotten a bird.
Her green and yellow hues dancing across her feathers were a marvel to behold. I still remember what I said to her the first day I got her. “You’re a stellar bird, so I have to call you Stella.” After weeks of training and a few bags of bird treats we were almost inseparable. We enjoyed cozy blankets, and to Stella's dismay, a few baths. However, our time spent together could not go unnoticed. “You left bird poop on the television.” My mother said, slightly annoyed with my newfound obsession. Stella loved to sit atop the television, perching atop its flat screen. She had a passion for music, and the television offered a tall perch with music waiting to be cheerfully chirped along too. “I know, it's her favorite spot.” I responded timidly. The knowledge of life in my head was desperate to escape, providing an explanation. Answers, evidence, and facts. My brain and heart ached to share the intricacies of parakeet metabolism, wanting to explain the frequency of consumption and expulsion needed for a creature to harness the power of the skies. I knew my mother cared not for such things, so I bit my tongue and left my head in the clouds.
I hastily wiped up the couple of small white flecks that sparingly dotted the back of the television. The news of the “friendly but messy” bird spread to my grandfather. My grandfather was a true avian admirer, he would tell me stories of the flocks of homing pigeons he used to keep in his garage. My favorite part of the story is when he would tell the tales of the pigeon winters, and when all of the wild pigeons would flock to his garage, being led back by nature's compass: the homing pigeon. It had been many years since my grandfather had owned a parrot, and I had inspired him.
The next thing I knew I was being introduced to my grandfather's new parakeet Nicki. He was a striking male avian with a deep blue hue that began from his tail and faded into the green contours of his upper body. Nicki had lived a quiet life in a roomy abode, filled with toys and vibrant perches. But my grandfather couldn't seem to tame his wild nature. Parakeets are naturally skittish, being prey animals, so it takes a substantial amount of care to earn their trust. Even though Nicki wasn't as cuddly as Stella, he still adored him. Whenever he visited we would always exchange the latest news on our birds. I always tried to spend some time with Nicki everytime I visited. After some patience and a bit of treats, he warmed up to me just a bit. His steady progress was admirable, and filled with a warm sense of connection and fulfillment. Satisfied with my progress I left feeling a bit lighter than before. As I sat in the passenger seat of my mothers car, emanating music in a foreign but familiar spanish, she asked me a question. “Did you ever hear about the first Nicki?” She paused. “The first Nicki?” I questioned, knowing full well that this was the beginning of another one of my mothers stories from her youth. She always talked about her childhood in a rosy way that nostalgia couldn't bring to justice. Almost as if she yearned to relive the past, the present being the culmination of all of the world's problems. She talked on and on, about the homeliness of a big family, the sibling connection she always felt. About family.
“But what about the first Nicki?” I asked again, attempting to lead the conversation to a place with a tangible end. “I’m getting there Ethan, just be patient and let me finish.” she responded instantly. I’m an expert at keeping my head in the clouds, so I soared far above the conversation. I was lost in my head yet again. I thought about how adaptable humans can be, molding themselves into each situation. Humanity seemed like the most variable aspect of people. I found that fact deeply ironic: humans had dominated this world due to their ability to connect, collaborate, and above all, work together. Strangely, at this moment I thought about a story my father told me.
When he watched the moon landing on television as a child. He described it being the most mind blowing thing, and he felt proud to be a part of it. Watching as they jumped effortlessly, despite 400 pounds of equipment that weighed them down, it was a magical moment. He told me that he felt like he was a part of one of the biggest things in human history just by watching it. The sheer capability and potential for humanity was awe inspiring.
“Ethan, can you pay attention when your mother is talking to you?” my mother said, anchoring my head back to earth. I tried to shake my curiosity, or as it seemed to most, my distractibility. I looked down at my feet, it was a comfortable place to look. Seeing my worn shoes reminded me of many walks I took, surrounded by nature, observing the beauty of the natural world. Eye contact with my mother felt like balancing on toothpicks, occasionally darting back to meet her gaze to show that I was the listener who had the utmost respect for my family.
My head was full of thoughts, they seemed to branch and split, independent of each other. They flourished and questioned the world around me, but I had to trim the hedges of my mind. I focused on my biggest thought, “Who was the first Nicki?”. I had to direct this conversation skillfully and with the utmost care, whilst still holding what was most important to my mother. Family and respect. I recalled one of my mothers past anecdotes and used it as a point of leverage. A springboard to get the information my curious mind craved. “I know your brothers and sisters had pets, but what about Papa?” I asked, incorporating precious information, whilst upholding my mothers roots. “Papa” is how many people from Puerto Rico referred to their grandfather, and my mother wanted me to uphold the tradition. “Well, Papi loves birds. The dogs, cats, and hamsters we had were enough for us kids, but he needed a parrot. He got some kind of green bird with a red mouth, and he named him Nicki” my mother replied. “Ethan, I told you I was going to get to that part.” She stated whilst turning her eyes away from the road and towards me. “S-sorry…” I said feeling as if I were the most impatient person in the world. “Anyway-” my mother continued, “He had Nicki for a few months and he was fine until winter time. The window to his room was left open when he left for work, and the cold killed the thing. That's why he has that space heater in the room Nicki Two is in.” There was a moment of silence, and the only thing I could think of was how “some kind of a green parrot with a red mouth” was a vulgar description of the elegant green parrot with a dark crimson beak I was positive Nicki the First had.
Many of my mother’s siblings lived far from our home, being spread across the United States. My grandparents spent every summer going on long sleepless road trips to see their children and grandchildren hundreds, sometimes thousands of miles away. It was that time of year and my grandfather needed someone to watch Nicki. My mother graciously offered that the two of us watch him the week and a half that he was gone. Since I was the “bird expert” most of Nicki’s care was left to me, but I didn’t mind. The two avians glared at each other, knowing that something was off. Stella's cage atop a stand allowed her to look down on Nicki with a look of superiority. Their rivalry was amusing, and I would often catch them in staredowns that were broken when I entered to entertain them with music and food. “Both of you like the same things, you aren’t that different from each other!” I knew full well that they could not fully understand the intricacies of human English, but they seemed to soften when I spoke to them. Occasionally chirping back in response. I had grown fond of both of them.
However, the golden retriever and poodle hybrid known to my small family as “Rosie” had been noticing the decreased amount of attention she had received from me. Rosie had always been a puppy. Since the day we got her, she never seemed to lose energy and stayed playful, contrary to the fact that she would be turning 6 soon. Playfully bouncing up and down the stairs, and hopping atop of chairs and couches. Much to my mother's dismay. Ever since Nicki had arrived she enjoyed being eye level with his ground dwelling home. She was curious, and ran around with her tail wagging ferociously every time she saw him fly. I was getting accustomed to my small horde of creatures, as we exhibited a mutual respect and lifted each other up. We supported each other in every way we could. We were a team that consisted of a timid teenager, sassy birds, and a firecracker of a dog.
After my mother had decided to make me her shopping companion for the day I bid farewell to my canine and avian friends. Shopping was uneventful, and I spent the day waiting to come back to my room of friends, daydreaming about our times together. When we returned, Rosie was laying on the couch and I hurried to greet my flock. I walked up the stairs, feeling each creak of the old steps. Normally when I returned home, I was greeted with a variety of sounds. Rosie would bark at me happy to see me or my birds would be chirping loudly begging for my attention. It was peaceful. I enjoyed the serenity of the silence. It seemed I had left my door open. It was strange. I never left my door open. One thing I valued more than anything else was my privacy, and I would do anything I could to protect it even a little. I knew myself. This was not something I had done. Slightly annoyed that someone had left the door to my personal sanctuary open for all to see, I closed the door behind me and went to greet the birds.
“Howdy Stella!” I said to her peering into her cage. She was frozen, and looked at me with fear. “What's wrong Stella?” I was concerned about my friend. She just looked at me from the back of her cage, ignoring the toys and treats I had surrounded her home with. I needed more information. I looked over to Nicki’s cage. It was empty. “N-n-nicki?” I called for him wondering where he could be. The world responded with silence. The once tranquil silence was now deafening, mocking my ears for not listening closely enough. His cage was open, and it looked broken, the wires loosened from being pulled on. Then I looked to my familiar place, my feet. I looked there to avoid the feeling of losing my grandfather’s pet. To avoid the disappointment that I would face for being an unfit caregiver. It was right between my feet where I found the information I was looking for.
Nicki’s headless corpse laid in between my feet; he had long since drawn his final breath. His brilliant blues and emerald greens were smothered in a dark caked crimson that seemed to reflect the cruelty of the world. I looked closer, because I didn't know how to look away. His spine poked from where his head attached and I could see what remained of his esophagus leading down into a stomach that could no longer enjoy the treats I had given him. His flesh seemed to bulge out of his body, and I saw all of the intricate mechanisms that once kept him alive. The contours of flesh, the beginnings of deceased organs, and ripped tendons from his neck showed his suffering. I didn’t yell or cry when I found him. I just stared. I stared as a silent scream for answers. I knew there was a reason for everything, it was just simply how the world worked. Rosie was the only one who was home, the only member of the family without an alibi. It had to have been her. I spent about 10 minutes searching frantically for Nicki’s head. It was eaten. The only trace of it being a few smears of dark dried blood on the floor.
Defeated, I slumped down the stairs to my mother. “Rosie ate Nicki’s head.” I confessed feeling the guilt of all I had done wrong. “Oh my god. Ethan, go clean it up. I'll be back in 30 minutes.” My mother said as she hurried back to the car speeding out of the driveway. Rosie layed on the couch innocently looking up at me confused. I looked at my dog's dark brown eyes and her rusty colored, fluffy coat. I couldn't bring myself to be angry with her. She was a predator following her most primal instincts and the birds were her prey. Still, it saddened me to return to the murder scene. Nicki’s body was cold. He wasn’t Nicki anymore, he was just a pile of dead flesh. I cleaned what was left of him off the ground and said my final goodbye. I repaired the cage, restoring it to its former glory. He was gone. I sat looking at his empty cage for some time, wishing I had the chance to make him trust me as much as Stella did.
But my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of my mother reentering the house. She was holding something. “Did you clean it up?” she asked me “Yes… I did.” I responded feeling a profound sense of grief. “Good. I got another bird, go put it inside the cage.” and she handed me the box. She chuckled a bit and said “I guess this is going to be Nicki three.” I didn't respond. I just did as I was asked and placed the new bird right where Nicki used to be. My mother had gotten a bird that looked nearly identical to Nicki, but to me he couldn't have acted any more different than how Nicki did, being noticeably younger and far more outspoken. Noticing these differences only worried me further. My mother moved Nicki’s cage and the bird impersonating him out of my room and into a “safer” room. My mother continued on like it was just as if a child’s goldfish from the carnival had met its demise early from being kept in a bowl, as most Rosy Red Minnows sold as pets end up. This left a bitter feeling within me. Later that night I closed my eyes and paid my highest respects towards Nicki, because I believe that's what he deserved. Another connection had been severed.
My mother warned me not to mention the untimely end of Nicki towards my grandparents. So I held my tongue. My grandfather never noticed that the real Nicki had disappeared. And when my mother and I returned that bird to my grandfather, he thanked us for taking good care of his bird. Since the original Nicki had been killed two years ago, the whole incident had faded into a distant memory for everyone except for myself. I believe that my mother feared the disappointment of her father, much how I fear her disappointment. To this day I believe that out of the three Nickis the original one was the second. The second Nicki to me was just Nicki, not a replacement for a lost bird. He was uniquely his own, deserving of respect. Simply for the reason of being alive, simply for adding his own unique value to the world. I believe that anything alive should at least be understood, especially if they have done no wrong. Rest in peace Nicki. I’m eternally grateful that I was a part of your life.