It was a lull, albeit temporary, that afternoon. The morning rush of spays and neuters in the surgery was over, and the late morning appointments were done. Denise* and I were manning the front desk; the doctor and one of the vet techs were off on a farm call. The occasional client came in to purchase a flea pill or the phone rang with someone needing to make an appointment. You never use the “q” word in a vet clinic because that’s inviting disaster.
As Denise and I sat at the front desk enjoying the reprieve, the door opened and in walked Ms. Cynthia with a friend of hers and carrying something wrapped in a kitchen towel. In her late 60s, short with long graying hair and bangs she peered out from under, Ms. Cynthia was, like many of our clients, a stalwart animal lover and overall lovely person. She was also one who sometimes, in the overenthusiastic frame of animal lover, didn’t always listen or want to hear what was being said.
But today Ms. Cynthia and her friend presented us with a wrapped offering the size of a loaf of bread and placed it on the counter in front of me and Denise. Friend stood just behind and to the side of Ms. Cynthia, giving us a look and small smile that said, “Get ready for this.”
“Hi, Ms. Cynthia,” Denise said. “Whatcha got there?”
“Well,” Ms. Cynthia started, blinking behind her bangs, “I would just like a second opinion on something. I think he’s dead, but I wanted to make sure.”
Denise and I glanced at each other as Ms. Cynthia unwrapped her package. In it was a large grey, green, and blue parrot, eyes closed, beak slightly open, and body as stiff as a board. Its beautiful colors belied the fact that it did indeed appear to be quite dead. The classic Monty Python skit immediately began to run through my head.**
“I normally give him a scrambled egg every morning,” Ms. Cynthia explained. “I put it in the bottom of his cage, and he’ll jump down from his perch and eat it. But today he just swung around on the perch” – she illustrated with her index finger the act of the bird swinging around by its legs from the top to the bottom of its perch – “and fell to the bottom of the cage and laid there.” This parrot is no more. This parrot has ceased to be.
I would be lying if I said it didn’t take all my effort to not laugh at her descriptive interpretation of the parrot’s unceremonious descent to the bottom of the cage. Friend standing behind Ms. Cynthia pressed her lips together while keeping her eyes downcast in an attempt to maintain her decorum.
Denise and I are not veterinarians or vet techs (although Denise has years of experience in the field as opposed to myself), but even we could tell the bird was a goner, and I could tell Friend did too. I think Ms. Cynthia knew in her heart that the parrot was indeed dead but wanted an expert opinion in the hopes that she was wrong. That parrot is definitely deceased. It’s expired and gone to meet its maker. This is an ex-parrot.
Denise put her hand on the cold and stiff parrot, lightly ruffling its beautiful feathers which did not dull with the lack of life within. “Yes, Ms. Cynthia, I think he’s definitely dead,” Denise said with great empathy. This is a late parrot. It’s stiff; it’s bereft of life. It rests in peace.
“Yeah, I thought so,” Ms. Cynthia said matter of factly. “Okay. I just wanted to make sure.” She began to wrap him back up in the towel. “You know, one minute he was fine, and the next – pfft! And he always loved his daily egg!”
“He was 14 years old,” she continued. “I’ve had him since he was a baby. I actually hatched him myself.” I wasn’t exactly sure how to interpret that last statement, as with Ms. Cynthia anything was possible, but I let it go. Denise and I nodded sympathetically.
“You gave him a good long life,” Denise said.
“He was lucky to have had such a good life,” I agreed.
Ms. Cynthia managed a sad smile. “Okay. Well, thanks,” she said as she turned towards the door, tucking her package of deceased bird under her arm. Friend gave us a smile and nod as she followed Ms. Cynthia out to the parking lot.
When the door closed behind them, Denise and I looked at each other. Unable to contain myself any longer, I said, in my best attempt at an English accent, “That bird has ceased to be.”
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*Names have been changed to protect the innocent and my job.
**You know you want to watch the Monty Python skit. Find it here.
