Pete 5
As I was walking through Petco today, I passed the ferrets and parakeets. Both reminded me of other ferrets and parakeets I'd encountered. I could tell the story of the diseased ferret that came into my life for a brief moment a few years back, but many of you already know the story... and that's not the one on my mind today. What's really on my mind is Pete.
Pete was my green parakeet. My parents gave me Pete for my birthday (I don't remember which one), along with a custom cage that my father made. It had a sliding tray in the bottom that you could remove to clean out the cage and replace the paper. Pete came from my babysitter's house. She raised parakeets.
The first challenge I had with Pete was naming him. Apparently, my parents had had several parakeets. I honestly don't remember the birds themselves (maybe they were before my time?), but I remembered that their names were Pete 1, Pete 2, Pete 3, etc. Because I knew this, my young mind could only think of one name for a parakeet. Pete. So my boy became Pete 5.
There was one rule about caring for Pete that I remember to this day. Don't put colored newspapers in the cage. Why? I didn't know, but I was told it would result in Pete's death. That's a really scary consequence for a kid. I tried vigilantly to only use black and white newspapers, and to always try to find ones with a crossword puzzle or the comic strips so that Pete wouldn't be bored.
Of course, Pete had other things to play with. There were plenty of bells and ladders and swings. He had toys made out of seed that he would chip away at with his sharp beak. He even had some toys that were meant to help keep his beak sharp... and let me tell you, it worked. Very often when I'd clean Pete's cage, I'd let him sit on my finger for a minute. He'd even rub his head against my nose from time to time. Without warning, he'd be done. And whatever was within range - nose or finger - would become Pete's next victim. He'd bite the fire out of you, and it would hurt like the dickens.
Some parakeets talk, and Pete was no different. Luckily, he didn't repeat everything people said (he was no parrot). But he was very in love with himself. The only phrase he mastered was, "Pretty bird." I always thought that odd, since he was a boy. But I guess it was my own fault for telling him he was pretty. I suppose that was before I learned that boys were supposed to be handsome, and girls pretty. He was a pretty bird, though.
I hesitate to say that my sister hated Pete, but she really kinda did. He had a bad habit of flinging seeds all over our bedroom, which is probably the reason she wanted her own room. (I'm sure it had nothing to do with me.) To this day, Kef gives me a hard time for neglecting Pete. She only says that because Pete broke his foot at some point, and I don't know exactly when or how it happened. Also, I don't know exactly when he died. I just found him one day. I will deny till my last breath that he was neglected, or that there was anything I could do to prevent his injury or his death. He was about six years old when he died... a nice long age for a parakeet, I'm told. I choose to believe that.
What I do remember about my parakeet's passing was that my dad was sick the day Pete died. For previous pet home-goings, my dad had built a coffin and dug a hole. But Dad was sick in bed. I was on my own for the burial. Rather than build a coffin out of wood like Dad would, I found the only appropriate box in my bedroom... an empty, heart-shaped Valentine chocolate box. It was appropriate, because I loved Pete. He was mean, but I loved him. I wrapped him in tissue paper and laid him in the box. Then I went out to the vegetable garden to find an appropriate place for a burial. I figured if we ever moved, I'd probably want to dig him up and take him with us... so the burial site needed to be one I could find again. I chose the base of the mimosa tree, just inside the garden gate. I vaguely recall finding a piece of cardboard to write Pete's name on as a temporary headstone. Dad would have to engrave something later (that never came to pass).
As I was leaving the pet store today, the only thing that was bothering me about my memories of Pete was that nagging question I'd never answered. Why couldn't I use colored newspapers in Pete's cage? Today I found the answer. The chemicals used to create the colors could be toxic to birds. And since parakeets love shredding things, they'd probably be putting the papers in their mouth. These days, inks and dyes used in newspapers are less toxic, but magazines and glossy inserts are still off-limits for bird cages. So feel free to use the in-color Sunday comics.
Pete was my green parakeet. My parents gave me Pete for my birthday (I don't remember which one), along with a custom cage that my father made. It had a sliding tray in the bottom that you could remove to clean out the cage and replace the paper. Pete came from my babysitter's house. She raised parakeets.
The first challenge I had with Pete was naming him. Apparently, my parents had had several parakeets. I honestly don't remember the birds themselves (maybe they were before my time?), but I remembered that their names were Pete 1, Pete 2, Pete 3, etc. Because I knew this, my young mind could only think of one name for a parakeet. Pete. So my boy became Pete 5.
There was one rule about caring for Pete that I remember to this day. Don't put colored newspapers in the cage. Why? I didn't know, but I was told it would result in Pete's death. That's a really scary consequence for a kid. I tried vigilantly to only use black and white newspapers, and to always try to find ones with a crossword puzzle or the comic strips so that Pete wouldn't be bored.
Of course, Pete had other things to play with. There were plenty of bells and ladders and swings. He had toys made out of seed that he would chip away at with his sharp beak. He even had some toys that were meant to help keep his beak sharp... and let me tell you, it worked. Very often when I'd clean Pete's cage, I'd let him sit on my finger for a minute. He'd even rub his head against my nose from time to time. Without warning, he'd be done. And whatever was within range - nose or finger - would become Pete's next victim. He'd bite the fire out of you, and it would hurt like the dickens.
Some parakeets talk, and Pete was no different. Luckily, he didn't repeat everything people said (he was no parrot). But he was very in love with himself. The only phrase he mastered was, "Pretty bird." I always thought that odd, since he was a boy. But I guess it was my own fault for telling him he was pretty. I suppose that was before I learned that boys were supposed to be handsome, and girls pretty. He was a pretty bird, though.
I hesitate to say that my sister hated Pete, but she really kinda did. He had a bad habit of flinging seeds all over our bedroom, which is probably the reason she wanted her own room. (I'm sure it had nothing to do with me.) To this day, Kef gives me a hard time for neglecting Pete. She only says that because Pete broke his foot at some point, and I don't know exactly when or how it happened. Also, I don't know exactly when he died. I just found him one day. I will deny till my last breath that he was neglected, or that there was anything I could do to prevent his injury or his death. He was about six years old when he died... a nice long age for a parakeet, I'm told. I choose to believe that.
What I do remember about my parakeet's passing was that my dad was sick the day Pete died. For previous pet home-goings, my dad had built a coffin and dug a hole. But Dad was sick in bed. I was on my own for the burial. Rather than build a coffin out of wood like Dad would, I found the only appropriate box in my bedroom... an empty, heart-shaped Valentine chocolate box. It was appropriate, because I loved Pete. He was mean, but I loved him. I wrapped him in tissue paper and laid him in the box. Then I went out to the vegetable garden to find an appropriate place for a burial. I figured if we ever moved, I'd probably want to dig him up and take him with us... so the burial site needed to be one I could find again. I chose the base of the mimosa tree, just inside the garden gate. I vaguely recall finding a piece of cardboard to write Pete's name on as a temporary headstone. Dad would have to engrave something later (that never came to pass).
As I was leaving the pet store today, the only thing that was bothering me about my memories of Pete was that nagging question I'd never answered. Why couldn't I use colored newspapers in Pete's cage? Today I found the answer. The chemicals used to create the colors could be toxic to birds. And since parakeets love shredding things, they'd probably be putting the papers in their mouth. These days, inks and dyes used in newspapers are less toxic, but magazines and glossy inserts are still off-limits for bird cages. So feel free to use the in-color Sunday comics.
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| Photo credit: Pixabay user webandi |
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