didn’t know if Randolph had it.
“Hang in there, Randolph.” I didn’t know where that came from, it just sounded right. And as I swerved around a minivan, I was gratified to hear an answering squawk.
“Help.” The voice was soft but audible. “Get help.”
“That’s right, Randolph. We’ll be there soon.” Leaf peepers were everywhere, and I had to keep my eyes on the road. Still, the shuffle next to me sounded more like confused bird than convulsion. One more car passed, and I dared a glance. One bright eye stared back up at me, but the parrot was shivering.
“You warm enough?” I’d been afraid to blast the heat. Who knew what spores lived in my radiator? This bird was already in a weakened condition.
“Yah.” It could have been an affirmative. It could have been a senseless squawk. Any sign of life was good. Cheering.
“I’m sorry about the hasty exit.” I found myself just this side of babbling. “And the towel. Wallis would hate that, I know. So undignified. She’s a cat. Does anyone at LiveWell have a cat? Maybe not. ”
“She’s—” Silence. I glanced over, and the little eyes still seemed bright.
“She’s a cat.” I repeated. It wasn’t a useful phrase. However, if Randolph was still interested in mimicking me, he wasn’t that far gone. And by then we didn’t have that far to go. I was driving faster than even my usual, I realized as I careened around a hesitant Volvo onto the exit. We’d be at County in less than a minute. “A cat.”
The only response was a soft whistle, weak and low. We were on small streets now, and at this speed I couldn’t take my eyes off the road, but I needed to check. I reached over. Yes, I felt movement.
“She’s a cat,” I repeated, as much for myself as for Randolph. County. I heard my tires screech as I pulled into the lot.
“She’s—” I slammed on the brakes, reaching for the bird before he could tumble to the floor.
“Hang on, Randolph.” Clutching him to me like a football, I charged from the car. Rammed through the door. “Doc Sharpe?”
“Not—” I thought I heard from the towel-wrapped bird. Could have been “Doc.” Who knew? “She’s not—” At least the bird was still alive.
“Doc?” I pushed past Pammy, the vet’s ditsy assistant, and into the back hallway. “Doc Sharpe?” I didn’t have time to check each examining room and his office. Randolph didn’t have time.
A bald head looked out, eyes wide behind wire-rimmed glasses.
“Doc, I’ve got a sick parrot here. I’m not sure if he inhaled something. Might have eaten something. Might have been—” I paused, catching my breath and holding the parrot in front of me. “Poisoned.”
“Poison.” Randolph’s hoarse voice was loud and clear. “She’s not—” Then the wrapped bird gave strange avian cough and went limp.
***
“Exam room A.” Doc Sharpe ushered me down the hall. I placed the parrot on the table and stood back. The vet was washing his hands, and Randolph wasn’t flying anywhere. “History?”
“The bird seemed fine until about forty-five minutes ago.” Had it been that fast? “Maybe thirty. I’d been letting him fly around the apartment. There were numerous small objects and possible sources of toxicity.” I tried to recall Polly’s room as I’d last seen it, and began listing the dangers. “Possibility of onions, caffeine. Small non-food objects. Also, the heat was on.” Doc Sharpe would understand.
“Okay, then.” I washed up as he opened Randolph’s beak. The vocalizations were a good sign that his airway wasn’t blocked, but I knew he’d be looking for other clues—irritated throat or other mucus membranes—that might give us an indication of what had happened. “No prior issues?”
“No.” I stopped myself. “Some over grooming, but the bird’s owner has recently died and his routine has been changed.”
“Ah, the Larkin bird. I remember.” He was unwrapping the bird and palpating his belly. Now
“Hang in there, Randolph.” I didn’t know where that came from, it just sounded right. And as I swerved around a minivan, I was gratified to hear an answering squawk.
“Help.” The voice was soft but audible. “Get help.”
“That’s right, Randolph. We’ll be there soon.” Leaf peepers were everywhere, and I had to keep my eyes on the road. Still, the shuffle next to me sounded more like confused bird than convulsion. One more car passed, and I dared a glance. One bright eye stared back up at me, but the parrot was shivering.
“You warm enough?” I’d been afraid to blast the heat. Who knew what spores lived in my radiator? This bird was already in a weakened condition.
“Yah.” It could have been an affirmative. It could have been a senseless squawk. Any sign of life was good. Cheering.
“I’m sorry about the hasty exit.” I found myself just this side of babbling. “And the towel. Wallis would hate that, I know. So undignified. She’s a cat. Does anyone at LiveWell have a cat? Maybe not. ”
“She’s—” Silence. I glanced over, and the little eyes still seemed bright.
“She’s a cat.” I repeated. It wasn’t a useful phrase. However, if Randolph was still interested in mimicking me, he wasn’t that far gone. And by then we didn’t have that far to go. I was driving faster than even my usual, I realized as I careened around a hesitant Volvo onto the exit. We’d be at County in less than a minute. “A cat.”
The only response was a soft whistle, weak and low. We were on small streets now, and at this speed I couldn’t take my eyes off the road, but I needed to check. I reached over. Yes, I felt movement.
“She’s a cat,” I repeated, as much for myself as for Randolph. County. I heard my tires screech as I pulled into the lot.
“She’s—” I slammed on the brakes, reaching for the bird before he could tumble to the floor.
“Hang on, Randolph.” Clutching him to me like a football, I charged from the car. Rammed through the door. “Doc Sharpe?”
“Not—” I thought I heard from the towel-wrapped bird. Could have been “Doc.” Who knew? “She’s not—” At least the bird was still alive.
“Doc?” I pushed past Pammy, the vet’s ditsy assistant, and into the back hallway. “Doc Sharpe?” I didn’t have time to check each examining room and his office. Randolph didn’t have time.
A bald head looked out, eyes wide behind wire-rimmed glasses.
“Doc, I’ve got a sick parrot here. I’m not sure if he inhaled something. Might have eaten something. Might have been—” I paused, catching my breath and holding the parrot in front of me. “Poisoned.”
“Poison.” Randolph’s hoarse voice was loud and clear. “She’s not—” Then the wrapped bird gave strange avian cough and went limp.
***
“Exam room A.” Doc Sharpe ushered me down the hall. I placed the parrot on the table and stood back. The vet was washing his hands, and Randolph wasn’t flying anywhere. “History?”
“The bird seemed fine until about forty-five minutes ago.” Had it been that fast? “Maybe thirty. I’d been letting him fly around the apartment. There were numerous small objects and possible sources of toxicity.” I tried to recall Polly’s room as I’d last seen it, and began listing the dangers. “Possibility of onions, caffeine. Small non-food objects. Also, the heat was on.” Doc Sharpe would understand.
“Okay, then.” I washed up as he opened Randolph’s beak. The vocalizations were a good sign that his airway wasn’t blocked, but I knew he’d be looking for other clues—irritated throat or other mucus membranes—that might give us an indication of what had happened. “No prior issues?”
“No.” I stopped myself. “Some over grooming, but the bird’s owner has recently died and his routine has been changed.”
“Ah, the Larkin bird. I remember.” He was unwrapping the bird and palpating his belly. Now
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