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It was a difficult day for Tony Blaire, my little chick. After watching his mannerisms change and his energy level deteriorate over the last few days, I called some veterinarians after exhausting my limited knowledge the nuances of bird disease online. He had been passed—quite noticeably—in size by Dougie Fresh and Glenn, but the last three days denoted behavior differences that had suggested something was very wrong. Constantly standing under the light, Tony Blair would sit with his feathers ruffled up around himself, eyes half shut, and showing an inability to stay standing steadily when another cagemate passed by too roughly. He was dying.
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I have no idea what the bum was saying, and I didn’t really care to find out. There was something about his mother, his father dying, and—as always—something about being down on his luck. “Can’t help you out man,” Mick had said, but even if this answer would have sufficed, this hobo was completely lost in his own rambling story.
I attacked my sandwich with new vigor, suddenly very hungry. It’s an unnerving thing to have someone tell you they’re hungry while you sit eating, so the sooner I was done with the activity, the better. It’s even stranger to have someone start careening dangerously close to your food during this process. But I was already thinking about how Mick and I might be able to get out of this situation without being stabbed.
