On Aisle Three, Marcia suggested, hopefully, “A puppy?”

“Craps and pisses all over the rug, has to be walked.”

On Aisle Four, she said, “A nice kitten then. They house train and walk themselves.”

“Sneaky things, cats. Wouldn’t have one in the house.’

On Aisle Six, Marcia kept quiet as they passed the fish.

On Aisle Seven, Richard stopped in front of a cage: “A bird, a nice little bird for you, Marcie. You said you wanted a pet ... well, a bird sits in its cage, no trouble. And they talk. Says so on the cage: ‘Cockatiels. Lucinda and Joaquin, mated pair. Some speech.’ They’ll keep you company when I have to work late.”

Richard held up his hand and beckoned to a clerk.

The young man came over: “Can I help you sir?”

“We want one of these birds. The bright one, with the yellow spots.”

“That’s Joaquin,” the clerk said. “Sorry sir, but they’re a mated pair and can only be sold together. We have other cockatiels that haven’t mated. Would you like to see one of those?”

“Do they talk?”

“Not yet, but you can easily teach them. These are older birds. The woman that bought them had her mother move in, and her mother’s allergic to birds.  She asked us to take them for her.  They have to be sold as a pair.”

“I want one bird, not two.”

“It’s not fair to the birds to split them up like that. They’d be miserable, probably never say another word.”

“Let me speak to the manager.”

Marcia spoke at this, “Richard, please, let’s just buy another bird. I don’t want a new pet that’s miserable ... or forget the whole idea. You can take me out to dinner for my birthday instead.”

“Be quiet, Marcia, they’re only a couple of birds for Christ's sake.”

Marcia sighed. Richard hated opposition.

The manager was adamant: “First, it’s Pet World policy to consider the welfare of the animals we sell. And splitting up a mated pair of cockatiels is not good for them. Second, I promised the woman they would be sold as a pair.”  Third, the manager thought, but did not say, 'you shouldn’t be allowed control over anything living. Get a rock.'

“All right, then,” Richard capitulated, “we’ll take both birds.”

As they drove home, Richard chuckled: “I’ll put an ad in the free paper tomorrow: ‘One cockatiel, can talk. $40. The pair cost $60’. So we’ve gotten you a birthday present for a good price.”

Joaquin and Lucinda sat in their new cage on top of the table in front of the window. Joaquin looked longingly out the glass at the trees. He began to mutter, then sing like a finch.

“Listen to him sing,” Richard said. “Pretty little thing. Talk bird, talk.”

Joaquin moved restlessly around the cage and began walking sideways on the horizontal bars: back and forth, back and forth, little black eyes fixed on the man, his crest raised. He was resolutely silent.

Marcia said, “It’s my birthday present, and I want both birds, Richard. Let me keep the pair of them.”

A few days later, Richard came home with a new cage. He reached into the cage, grabbed Lucinda and took her out. Both birds were calling shrilly, Joaquin beat his wings and clung to the side of his cage, watching Lucinda as she fluttered in her new cage.

“Roy at work needs a birthday present for his kid,” Richard said. “He gave me $40 for it and went out and bought a new cage at lunchtime. He’s waiting outside in his car.” Richard picked up the cage with Lucinda.

“You can’t do that Richard, I won’t let you!” Marcia cried.

“Shut up, Marcia. He’s already bought the cage, and the kid’s birthday is today. Now get out of my way.”

Marcia clutched at Richard’s arm. “Don’t do this, Richard.”

“Don’t push, Marcy. You know how I hate it when you push me. I’ve already done it.”

She tried to take the cage and he hit her. Both birds panicked, fluttering in their separate cages. Richard hit Marcia again, and she staggered and fell heavily on the floor.

“Richard, you hit me! Don’t do this Richard.”

Richard left the room.

Marcia cried and sat down by Joaquin: “Oh, little birdie. I’m sorry. When he’s like this, there’s not much I can do.”

Joaquin sat sullenly on his perch in the corner of the cage. His feathers were ruffled, his crest erect. His claws clenched and unclenched on the perch.

“I’ll get you a nice mirror,” Marcia said coaxingly, “a nice mirror and some toys.”

“Buzz off,” Joaquin said, and those were the last words he spoke.

A pattern developed for Joaquin. During the day, he sat silently in his cage. Marcia came home from work, went upstairs and chattered to him. Marcia talked almost constantly. She let him out, and he would sit on her shoulder while the two of them watched television. Later, much later, Richard came in. Joaquin went back to his cage, Marcia went down to cook, and Richard came upstairs and sat in front of the television. Joaquin watched him intently.

The pattern changed slightly: Marcia moved his cage to where he could see the television. She left it on during the day. Joaquin had a favorite soap opera.

Then it changed a little more. Richard came in very late, or not at all.

Marcia sat in front of the television, a glass in her hand, Joaquin on her shoulder. She would go to sleep sometimes, and Joaquin would go back to his cage by himself.

One evening, Marcia got up. She put out a finger and Joaquin hopped on it: “Here, sit on top of the cage, Joaquin. I need something from the kitchen. Be right back.”

Joaquin heard her cry out. Then bump, bump, bump. Silence. After awhile, he went back in his cage.

He heard the door slam; Richard was back.

Richard came upstairs and stood next to the cage, talking on the telephone: “Christmas has come early, Angie. The bitch broke her neck. I’ll tell them I was at work.”

Then there were other phone calls.

Policemen stood in the room; the television was turned off. Joaquin watched them  and squawked loudly. One of the men looked at him.

Joaquin said, very loudly, very clearly: “Don’t do this Richard. You hit me Richard ... then Joaquin screamed. “Don’t push...don’t push”; then, again, the scream.

The men in the room grew silent. They looked at Richard.

“Ambulance men said there were some bruises,” one of the men said.

“Seems there was a delay in calling 911,” another of the policemen said. “The neighbor next door said she heard the car come in some time ago; before she heard the scream.”

“That was my wife’s car,” Richard said.  “The old bitch is deaf, and she doesn’t like me.”

Joaquin spoke again: “I’ll tell them I was at work, Angie.” Then, again, the awful scream.

Richard lunged at the cage, and a policeman blocked him.

“The bird’s lying,” Richard said. “He hates me. You can’t believe a bird, for Christ’s sake.”

“Could you come down to the station with us, sir?  We’ll need some more information about where you were this evening.”

As one of the policemen carried Joaquin in his cage to the animal shelter, Joaquin muttered to himself: “Christmas early this year, early for Joaquin.”

 Contact the Author - W.L.Lyon@ukc.ac.uk