Spaffy, my male cockatiel, has elevated masturbation to an art form. In the morning, noon, and night I can hear, if not witness, his feathered body rubbing across the toys on top of his cage - da ta da ta da…eek! High C- means Bingo! Not content with the inanimate, he relentlessly seeks satisfaction in his partner Spiffy, another male Cockatiel. Spiffy is a sexless as Spaffy is oversexed. Everyday the chase is on.
There is also Tootie and Fruitie. Two female Zebra Finches who against all odds try to produce a family laying egg after egg.
And lastly, Sweetie, a male Glouster canary, who reigns supreme in his flight cage peeking out from under his Beatle hair-do.
Every evening I take Ruffy, my female terrier mix out for her last walk. Ruffy loves our walks. New York streets holds promise for Ruffy's palate. She grabs the guckiest, yuckiest things to eat before I can stop her. She is the athletic type and lifts her leg about 10 times each outing. Even though she's female, this male gesture of leg lifting has taken hold. Like Spaffy, and Tootie and Fruitie, difference in the sexes has no meaning. She came from California, so - anything goes.
We were rounding the corner from 89th onto Amsterdam Avenue. I also like our walks, except in the blazing heat or the bitter cold. But this particular Sunday was a pleasant. Heavy rains had cleared the air. We were almost home. I like to look at the people. They have the New York walk -- hurrying and scurrying. I imagine that many are lonely and scared inside. In New York my imagination works overtime because so many, are so good at looking so purposeful. Even the homeless rummage through the garbage bins with intensity one doesn't find in other cities.
We passed a doorman helping two tenants unload the trunk of their car. Two teenage girls with bare midriffs and very high heels, clickety-clicked on by. A small group of large young men were on their way to the popular neighborhood restaurant. And there was also this creature bustling along. Give it a copy of the wall street journal, a briefcase and you had the typical New York trader on their way up. But this little one would never make it on the stock exchange. It might not have made it much longer on Amsterdam Avenue.
A baby pigeon. No tail as yet, and pin feathers all around its neck. But… oh, so white with little grey stripes and clear black eyes. Maybe it thought this was the natural course of things - pecking out of its shell, being fed by mama, being flushed out of the nest, and now…. if it could only catch a taxi. It was doing its part -- running in one direction and then running in the other -- but going nowhere.
Ruffy lunged at it, (a sweet dog, but a terrier nonetheless). I asked a couple of passers by if they would hold my dog. They looked incredulous and went on. I tied Ruffy to a short iron fence surrounding a tree. Taking off my black blouse that I use as a jacket I gingerly made my way towards the baby. I threw the blouse over it and picked it up in my arms. Safe! -for now anyway.
With pigeon under shirt, the doorman had no clue, as Ruffy and I went our way to the elevator. I put the baby in a blue cage and set it on a wooden card table in my office room. I softly played a chanting tape, turned the ceiling light to a soft glow and gently closed the door. Then I remembered water and added some spring water to the youngster's new domicile.
The morning brought the hardest challenge - feeding. So with hope and a prayer I applied what I have learned with a few previous rescues. Wrapping the baby in a light dishtowel, I carried it so it would get used to being held, boiled water to mix the baby bird formula, stirred it and filled the eyedropper with nourishment. It wasn't easy but it was possible. I got 3 full droppers-worth down its squirming self.
The phone rang. It was my friend Dorothy.
"I found a baby pigeon".
"What color is it?"
"White with…"
"Then it's a dove."
"It's a pigeon."
"Does it have a tail?"
"No."
"Then it won't live."
Dorothy would probably be right if there weren't the Naomi's of the world. Naomi is the wet-nurse, to baby pigeons. Naomi has saved hundreds of the lost and forlorn. And she said she would take a look at this one.
The doorman buzzed me that Naomi was here. Naomi oohed and ahhhd . It's Ganymede! She always names the pigeons. And their names are almost always celestial. Ganymede is one of the moons circling Jupitor. "It's mystical," Naomi said.
I took Ganymede out of its cage and went through the feeding routine. I was so success full that Naomi thought perhaps I should keep and nurse it. Ganymede had 3 more eyedroppers full and climbed out of the dishtowel to sit on my shoulder like a companion parrot. I took the feeding utensils back to the kitchen. Ganymede spread its wings as we turned into the kitchen. Spiffy and Spaffy freaked! The wingspan of this white and brown airplane was too much. Spaffy stopped all masturbatory practice, shrieked and flew to the canary cage. Spiffy flew in circles around the living room, hit the window and landed on the windowsill. Both shrieking at the top of their lungs.
Ganymede would go home with Naomi.
I felt sorry to see Ganymede go, but knew it was the best thing, as I returned Spiffy and Spaffy to the top of their cages. Wrapping Ganymede in a towel and gently putting Ganymede in Naomi's bag, we all three went down to catch that taxi. Just as we were closing the front door we heard – “da ta da da --eek...high C"—Bingo!