Ted Budgie

Two years ago my tomcat, Jeff, ate my green parakeet. I bent over, into the white wire cage, changing poop-splattered newspaper, and wiping the manzanita perches with a warm soapy washcloth. I didn't hear Jeff pad the floor behind me, didn't see him crouch and spring, snag the poor budgie between feline fangs, and haul him, dripping blood, out the pet door. I found the bird's body two hours later, split and plucked, two tablespoons of guts spilling into fresh-cut grass. I remember looking at the pattern of red against green, noticing the way it shaped a near-perfect pentagram. It was an omen. I ignored it.

I didn't have the heart to tell my young boys the pet cat ate their parakeet. I should have said "Hey, it's the Circle of Life, kids, you saw the Lion King." Instead I moved the budgie cage to my bedroom, locked the door, asked my neighbor to watch the boys and I winged it to PetSmart.

That's when I saw him - weight shifted on one skinny beige leg, green, dapper, behind black bars.

"Hey. I'll take that green budgie, please." I pointed to a green parakeet standing away from the remainder of the flock. His head seemed misshapen, almost Neanderthal-like, with a high sloping forehead and piercing, beady eyes.

The PetSmart employee glanced at the parakeet, then looked at me. He was young, maybe twenty years old. Angry zits formed the constellation Casseopia on his left cheek. He wore a blue canvas apron covered with conservative pins: "Pro-Life and I vote," "W," "Bush/Cheney 2004." He held a frayed bird net and a small cardboard box.

"Ma'am? Are you sure you want THAT parakeet? He seems antisocial." Mr. PetSmart's nostrils waved in and out as he spoke.

"Yes. I want THAT parakeet. He's sooooo cute! Plus, all sentient beings just need a little love." I smirked, shot my eyes to his political buttons so he would get my liberal hint.

I snuck Greeny home, shoved him in the cage with Bluey, yawned, and asked my boys to help me feed the birds. My sons didn't notice the change of occupant, but Blue Budgie did. She tried snuggling close to Greeny, tried chirping and fluffing breast feathers to gage a reaction, but Greeny stood alone, aloof, evasive, almost furtive, untrusting.

That first night I knew Greeny was no ordinary parakeet. A strange call emanated from the cage in the wee morning, way before normal birds cast their pajamas and call for coffee. He grunted an odd chirp, almost a word. I knew some budgies could learn simple words like "Hello" and "Pretty Bird" and "Peanut," but Greeny's word met the dark as a partner, sounded mumbled, deliberate. He seemed to say "Burger."

"Burger? As in Hamburger?" My best friend laughed when I mimicked Greeny's vocabulary. She sat in front of the cage to hear it for herself, but as long as she rested, blonde hair and face in hands, in view of the birds, Greeny didn't peep. He perched alone, stared at my friend through one slanted eye.

"Hey Birdie. I think Greeny is leering at me!" My friend squinted, returned the budgie's stare. His expression WAS kinda sexual, I thought. Or menacing. It was pure James Dean mixed with Hannibal Lector. I even thought he swivled his hips a little. My friend got up to leave, turned her back on the cage.

"Burger." Greeny chirped, said Burger twice, then followed it with three ominous clicks. Cluck. Cluck. Cluck.

My friend's mouth dropped open in surprise. "Holy crap, Birdie! He said 'MURDER!' He's counting down!" She started calling him Ted Budgie.

Three weeks later I knew my friend was right - there was something seriously wrong with that budgie. He pecked mercilessly at the blue bird. He dumped seed and pellet on the cage floor, almost tossed them at me in defiance. He figured out unusual ways of escaping his cage, too, opened locks no tiny avian creature should be able to maneuver. He climbed my bookcase, claw over beak, and knocked my simple treasures to the floor with one open wing. He even plucked a bald spot in blue budgie's head.

I called the vet and consulted internet experts. My green parakeet is exhibiting morbid tendencies, I said. He hates people, other birds, animals, bird toys, mirrors, even food. He's evil! We named him after a serial killer. What should I do?

All the professionals agreed that love was the answer. Just love him! Handle him! Cuddle him, feed him lots of fresh veggies, give him time in the green outdoors. And for God's sake, woman, change his name!

Man, I tried all these things, tried calling him Fluffy and feeding him blueberries, even bought sixty dollars worth of new hanging toys at the Birdie Boutique, but I ended up with fingers riddled with open budgie bite sores and a houseful of terrified pets and humans. Even Jeff the parakeet-munching cat was terrified. He hid beneath the couch, a gutteral moan escaping from his kitty lips, every time I brought Ted into the living room for some family exercise.

Love that bird, my ass! I used to be a liberal on prison reform, but I started having conservative red-state fantasies about electric chairs and solitary cells for crazed parakeets. Maybe that PetSmart man was right.

One day Ted Budgie escaped for good. I found the cage open, and both budgies MIA. My kids are convinced the cat let them free, but I know better. Every once in a while I see Ted perching in my jacaranda tree, threatening murder, clicking a warning. Blue budgie is gone. Six feet under, I assume, or hell bent for Cabo San Lucas.

Last night something woke me at 2 am. A strange sound. I sat in bed, leaned toward the open window, heard a familiar creepy voice.

"Burger."

I almost called 911.