the gloomy, low-ceilinged cellar trumped his ambivalence toward the great outdoors, he made a second wobbly flight around the oil furnace, through the workshop, and out the basement door, which either Linda or I had accidentally left open. Our backyard runs flat for about nine feet beyond our house, then in two dips it descends to meet the flood plain of the Grand River. As Ollie flapped across the yard at the level of the basement floor, the ground dropped beneath his feet. Snagging a spring breeze, he rose above the gully, floundering into the shoe-sucking swamp that separates us from the river.
Fortunately, Linda had been keeping tabs on Ollie from the living room. Finding the kitchen uncharacteristically quiet, she headed down to the basement and in disbelief traced the sound of his angry chirps outdoors, down the hill, and beyond the backyard fence. She ran back into the house and hollered up the stairs, “Ollie’s out in the yard way in the top of a tree.”
I thundered down the steps and followed her outside. Linda pointed and shouted, but I couldn’t pick him out from the foliage. His emerald-colored body blended in perfectly with the newly emerged leaves. For once Ollie’s incessant chirping served him well, and using his voice as a guide, I pinpointed him in a hack-berry tree just on the other side of the fence, clinging to a branch about twenty feet off the ground. I was shocked at how small and vulnerable our avian dictator looked. Though escaped Quakerparakeets have taken root in environments as inhospitable as Chicago and New York City, there wasn’t a chance Ollie would survive outdoors if we couldn’t lay our hands on him. His bad attitude was nothing like street smarts. It was the pampered personality of a spoiled rich kid in feathered knickers who was tough only when it came to dominating his owners. Bluff and bluster would mean nothing to a hawk, and none of the trees on our property sprouted spaghetti or mashed potatoes at mealtime.
“Ollie, come down from there,” Linda said, but she was talking to the wind. Under the best of circumstances, Ollie had never listened to us, and in this case he had determined that safety constituted the branch his toes were wrapped around. Our only chance was to try to reach him, which struck me as extremely unlikely. I don’t climb trees, chop them down, or even plant them. A ladder was the obvious recourse, but the last time I had used one, it was to clear debris off the nearly flat roof above our dining room, and once there I had been too frightened to climb down again.
This time I had no option but to fight my fear of heights. I wrestled an aluminum stepladder over our wire backyard fence and with no small effort followed the ladder with my body. I managed to penetrate a clinging barrier of wild black raspberry bushes and was already panting by the time I reached the base of the tree. Ollie scolded me as I searched in vain for a semisolid patch of ground that would simultaneously support all four legs of the ladder. The front legs immediately sank as I made my ascent, knocking the ladder against the tree trunk and almost pitching me off.
As I began my shaky climb, I lost all sight of Ollie. “I don’t see him anymore!” I shouted to Linda, who was helping to steady the ladder.
“He’s right there,” she called back, grazing my chest with the pointing finger at the end of her arm. From the way we were shoutingat each other, you would have thought we were on opposite sides of the swamp instead of within backslapping distance. “On this one?” I exclaimed, my voice rising louder with hope as I indicated a shoulder-height branch at a level a scant two steps up the ladder.
“No, that one,” Linda said, thrusting her finger toward a patch of sky split at a dizzying height by a thick grey line of bark. Blood hissed in my ears as I continued my ascent. After each successive step, I’d stop and raise my head from my thumping chest, hoping that the branch
Fortunately, Linda had been keeping tabs on Ollie from the living room. Finding the kitchen uncharacteristically quiet, she headed down to the basement and in disbelief traced the sound of his angry chirps outdoors, down the hill, and beyond the backyard fence. She ran back into the house and hollered up the stairs, “Ollie’s out in the yard way in the top of a tree.”
I thundered down the steps and followed her outside. Linda pointed and shouted, but I couldn’t pick him out from the foliage. His emerald-colored body blended in perfectly with the newly emerged leaves. For once Ollie’s incessant chirping served him well, and using his voice as a guide, I pinpointed him in a hack-berry tree just on the other side of the fence, clinging to a branch about twenty feet off the ground. I was shocked at how small and vulnerable our avian dictator looked. Though escaped Quakerparakeets have taken root in environments as inhospitable as Chicago and New York City, there wasn’t a chance Ollie would survive outdoors if we couldn’t lay our hands on him. His bad attitude was nothing like street smarts. It was the pampered personality of a spoiled rich kid in feathered knickers who was tough only when it came to dominating his owners. Bluff and bluster would mean nothing to a hawk, and none of the trees on our property sprouted spaghetti or mashed potatoes at mealtime.
“Ollie, come down from there,” Linda said, but she was talking to the wind. Under the best of circumstances, Ollie had never listened to us, and in this case he had determined that safety constituted the branch his toes were wrapped around. Our only chance was to try to reach him, which struck me as extremely unlikely. I don’t climb trees, chop them down, or even plant them. A ladder was the obvious recourse, but the last time I had used one, it was to clear debris off the nearly flat roof above our dining room, and once there I had been too frightened to climb down again.
This time I had no option but to fight my fear of heights. I wrestled an aluminum stepladder over our wire backyard fence and with no small effort followed the ladder with my body. I managed to penetrate a clinging barrier of wild black raspberry bushes and was already panting by the time I reached the base of the tree. Ollie scolded me as I searched in vain for a semisolid patch of ground that would simultaneously support all four legs of the ladder. The front legs immediately sank as I made my ascent, knocking the ladder against the tree trunk and almost pitching me off.
As I began my shaky climb, I lost all sight of Ollie. “I don’t see him anymore!” I shouted to Linda, who was helping to steady the ladder.
“He’s right there,” she called back, grazing my chest with the pointing finger at the end of her arm. From the way we were shoutingat each other, you would have thought we were on opposite sides of the swamp instead of within backslapping distance. “On this one?” I exclaimed, my voice rising louder with hope as I indicated a shoulder-height branch at a level a scant two steps up the ladder.
“No, that one,” Linda said, thrusting her finger toward a patch of sky split at a dizzying height by a thick grey line of bark. Blood hissed in my ears as I continued my ascent. After each successive step, I’d stop and raise my head from my thumping chest, hoping that the branch
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