THE AMAZING SKIPPY BIRD...

I never had a dog as a child or, for that matter, any pet. My mother, had no use or love for animals of any sort, so we remained petless, until my uncle Al decided to raise and breed parakeets.

You must understand, My uncle Al, the big game hunter, was also a professional hobbyist. Model trains, fishing, hunting, boating, gardening, and last but not least, parakeet breeding, were all, at one time or another, his passion. His sister, my Aunt Emma, was not one to be outdone by her younger brother, so she too indulged in recreational endeavors including: ceramics, sculpture, pastel chalk and oil painting classes, but although the same creative blood flowed so generously in our native artists such as Michelangelo, DaVinci, Raphael, Titan, etc., my Aunt Emma was artisically anemic. Her unsuccessful efforts at piano lessons, gourmet cooking classes, gardening, finally turned to the inevitable, bird breeding. It seemed my whole extended family became enamored with parakeets. Go figure!

One day, my father came home with a blue/grey young bird, which he had obtained from my Uncle Al. Of course, my Dad was given the special family discount for the bird.

I named the bird Skippy. He was a blue/grey, and was a real character. Since the rest of the family lost interest in the constant and repetitive training lessons needed to develop his vocabulary, songbook and tricks, I spent the most time with him. He soon became finger-trained, spoke a few phrases, whistled a few tunes, took showers in the sink and wrestled spaghetti off our Sunday dinner plates. He and I were the best of buddies, and he was a great companion for many years.

Out of all the birds in the various family's household, Skippy was the smartest, best trained, most responsive and intelligent bird of all. No one else's bird could hold a candle to Skippy, and some jealousy arose between my cousins and me, because without a doubt, Skippy was the star pet parakeet of the family.

Although My Uncle Al couldn't train any of his birds nearly as well, he compensated his bruised ego by bragging that Skippy was the top of the line from his stock, and my Dad should be grateful for the privilege of purchasing the best at such a discount. (since he could have gotten triple the price from an outsider).

However, my Aunt Emma was a different story. She was a miserable failure at breeding, training and raising her birds. I was never fond of my Aunt Emma, but being my father's oldest sister and the most fiancially comfortable of the clan, she was held high in the pecking (no pun intended) order by the rest of the family. (I truly believe the real reason was that each family wanted an 'invite' to her shore home each summer, hey it's was a free vacation -- and although I never liked her, I must admit I did like her shore home!) So she was given a wide berth, and her vanity constantly stroked by insincere compliments as she placed herself in the position of the family expert on everything.

One day Auntie Emma was visiting our home while I was out playing, and when I came in, the house was extremely quiet. I didn't hear any Skippy sounds which was more than unusual. I ran to his cage, and there was no Skippy. I looked at my father whose countenance was extremely glum. My dad finally told me that Aunt Emma, the bird expert, had been over and had noticed that Skippy's beak and toenails needed clipping. Unfortunately she had an accident and had mortally wounded Skippy as she was 'trimming his beak.'

I was devastated and cried, screamed and went hysterical. My friend, my companion, my Skippy was gone. My Aunt had killed him. My father bought home two other parakeets to try and compensate my loss, but they weren't Skippy and it was never the same. I never cared about my aunt's shore house after that. Never wanted to go visit her, and never forgave her.

Skippy wasn't the only victim of Aunt Emma. There was a family legend about another bird who was to have his toe nails trimmed by the nefarious Auntie Em, and wound up known as Peg Leg Pete, never to nest on a perch again. I wasn't quite sure if this was a true or a family urban legend, but years later, as old age approached, Aunt Emma started walking with a distinct limp, which developed into total dependence on a cane. Arthritis was the official diagnosis, but I never believed that. Arthritis didn't explain the raw, red, larged-pored, bulbous nose that she also developed. They say what goes around, comes around, and I knew in my heart, that my Aunt was the perfect example of that old adage.
- posted by rosemary @ 2:53 PM