Read Online Birdy by William Wharton - Free Book Online Page A

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    I’m getting better at queeping. You have to do it with your throat, tight, deep, and use your lips. It can’t be done by whistling.
    The next day I take Birdie out of the cage again. This time she only ducks under the crosspiece at the door. I put some treat food on my finger and she hops over to eat it. She touches me for the first time when she puts her foot onto my finger while she eats. I keep her out on the perch for almost five minutes and give her some rides by slowly moving the perch up and down or back and forth. She queeps at me each time and watches my eyes.
    I take her over to the cage and instead of putting her in the door, I lean the perch on top of the cage and she hops off. Then, I putthe perch just into the opening of the door. After a few queeps and some peEEP s, she jumps onto the perch and into the cage. It’s really a shame to close the door after that .
    She knows she’s been smart and brave. She goes over to the perch where I feed her treat food and gives a couple good loud QREEP? s. She actually is saying something new like QREEP-A-REEP?. I put some grains onto my finger and she eats them .
    In a few weeks, I have Birdie so she’ll fly out of the cage when I open the door and then she’ll land on the perch when I hold it up to her. She’ll fly off the perch to the other parts of the room, up on my bed, or on the window sill or on the dresser. Then she’ll fly back to my perch. She flies so beautifully with her head out and her feet tucked back. Her wings in the room make a whispering sound. If I want her, all I do is hold out the perch and call her with PeepQuEEP. This is a sound she knows. Probably it’s more her name than Birdie. ‘Birdie’ doesn’t mean anything to her when I say it. I keep thinking of her to myself as Birdie but PeepQuEEP is the name I call her with .
    At first, I give her a little grain or two of treat food when she comes to me, but after a while I don’t. I know and she knows we’re playing together.
    Sometimes she teases by flying back toward the perch and then, at the last minute, swerving away and landing somewhere else. One time she lands on my head this way. I can watch her fly all day, and I even like to watch her hopping around. She searches all over the floor and finds little things I can’t even see. I watch her carefully to get any droppings. If my mother finds any bird shit on anything, the whole game is finished.
    It’s a long time before Birdie lets me stroke her head or her breast. Birds are that way; they don’t even stroke each other. Birdie learns to like it though. She’ll come to my hand and puff up when I run my finger over the top of her head or down her wings. Her toenails need cutting, but every time I try to wrap my hands around her to pick her up, she panics.
    Usually when I let Birdie out, I pull the window shade, but one day I forget. She flies out of the cage door when I open it andstraight at the window. She hits the pane of glass in full flight and falls fluttering to the floor!
    I dash over and pick her up carefully. She’s unconscious, limp in my hand. There’s nothing deader than a dead bird. Movement is most of what a bird is. When they’re dead, they’re only feathers and air.
    One of her wings seems dislocated. I carefully fold it back and hold her in my two hands to warm her. She’s still breathing very lightly and quickly. Her heart’s beating against my hand. I look for something broken or bleeding. Her neck is hanging loosely over the end of my fingers and I’m sure she has a broken neck. The way she flies, with her head so far ahead of her body, confident with her flight, this is what would happen.
    Her eyes are closed by a pale, bluish, almost transparent lid. There’s nothing I can think to do. I pet her head softly. I PeepQuEEP at her and try to breathe warm air over her. I’m sure she’s dying .
    The first sign she shows is to move her head and lift it from hanging over my finger. She opens her eyes