Today’s Quora question: What was the most bizarre way you ended up adopting a pet?

You had to ask.

It was late August 2018. A sunny, hot afternoon. You know, one of those lazy summer days where you take shelter in your cool, dark, sort-of-messy house, fans blowing gently, and you have not a care in the world. You expect absolutely nothing and you’re OK with that. Lethargic. Lazy. Outside, the cicadas are buzzing rhythmically and hypnotically. You sort of melt into the couch. You’re half asleep, drifting.

Yeah, like that.

In this specific instance, just as I’m dozing off, my housemate shouts, “There’s a bird out on the front lawn — it can’t fly.”

I should note here that my housemate is my ex-husband. We’re buddies, we’re like siblings, and we bought the house together to save money. It’s a fixer-upper. He does the work. I pay the mortgage and the utilities.

So, anyway, it’s a hot August day, and it appears that some idiot neighbor had set loose yet another parakeet. The second one I’d seen in two years. The first one was sighted high up in our maple tree two Octobers ago. Couldn’t reach him. Current whereabouts unknown.

I mean, who does that? Just opens a door and evicts a clueless companion bird?

Well, I had to assess this situation. You would’ve, too.

I left the cool comfort of the house and squinted out into the sunshine. The heat blasted me as I approached the lawn. Why, yes, my roommate’s observation was indeed accurate: It was a bird, a green parakeet to be specific, and she was hopping and flying — at a very low altitude — and for only short bursts. She didn’t appear injured. With my limited knowledge of birds in general, I nonetheless surmised that this one’s wings must have been clipped.

I’m highly intelligent that way. Real MENSA material.

Yeah, right.

Anyway, I was late for an eye appointment, but I didn’t want to pass up this opportunity — I mean, look! It’s an animal totem (https://www.auntyflo.com/magic/parakeet) delivering a message. A bird on a mission. A bird in need, indeed.

Or something like that.

But I was in a hurry, and I’d worry about the message later.

Also, there was an element of danger — several stray cats in the area would surely love to sink their claws into this tasty, little morsel. So, I did the only logical thing: Set out to capture the winged one.

Should’ve been easy enough. Looked pretty straightforward. Wouldn’t take long. I mean, she couldn’t fly, right?

HAH.

Because even though birdie flew in short, low bursts, the little shit was amazingly crafty. There was a lot going on in that little birdbrain, like putting together a multi-leveled plan. An intricate strategy. I had to admire her spunk. She was sassy. She was clever.

She was such a JERK.

She’d land and just as I’d get close enough to grab her, she’d set off again. Rinse and repeat.

Like in the cartoons.

This endeavor was all well and good — quite stimulating and exciting, actually — until I ended up trespassing onto a neighbor’s driveway.

It wasn’t my fault, OK? That only happened because the little shithead landed on his fence.

Just as the guy was coming out of his house.

I mean, I’d never even seen this guy before — even though we’d lived in our house for two-and-a-half years, and, GEEZUS, the guy lived only two doors down — but he chooses that specific moment to go out to his car?

Who does that?

Thankfully, he was a good sport. A man of few words. A man who was clearly on a mission and needed to access his car immediately.

So I caught the bird and then returned home.

The neighbor sold his house a few months later.

That should have been the end of it. But, no.

Yes, I had the bird in hand, but I had yet to enter my house, and I’m fumbling, trying to open the door — you try opening a door with an unexpected bird in YOUR hand — right as my housemate opens the door, too.

You know how that goes — it’s an ‘oops’ moment, awkward, the two of you are a little startled, you’re unsteady, and you laugh it off.

Ha ha ha.

As this endearing vignette was transpiring, I loosened my grip on the bird, and then the little fucker bit me. The nerve, right? It stung, wasn’t painful. But it startled me, which in turn caused my hand to reflexively open completely, and the tiny ingrate was once again free.

It wasn’t my fault. The little turd had strategized this all along.

So there she was, arrogantly hopping along on our front porch — I mean FLAUNTING her freedom, rubbing my nose in it — and I’m shuffling along like an idiot after her. I was sooo close to grabbing her again — and then the little FUCKER hopped down off the porch, fluttered around the side of the house, and through the chain link fence into our backyard.

#(@$*#@(*(!

I could spell that out, but I think you get the idea.

I was really going to be late for my eye appointment now, but this bird needed rescuing. The task was yet undone. So, I ran around the other side of the house, stopped briefly inside to grab a towel — we didn’t have a net; why didn’t we have a net? — and headed that birdie off at the pass.

I’m clever like that. Brilliant. Yep, I’m a contender.

But damned if that little NITWIT didn’t crawl out from under the towel. I tried again. Again, she crawled out. It was madness.

At this specific point, I suddenly felt that I was being watched. I scrutinized my surroundings. I didn’t see anybody, but that didn’t mean that someone with nothing better to do on a hot, August day wasn’t observing this tableau from the safety and comfort of their own home. I’m sure it was only paranoia, plain and simple. I comforted myself with a welcome thought: For anyone observing, we’re putting on a really good shew here. Ed Sullivan would’ve been proud.

I snapped out of it and turned my attention back to the task at hand.

After crawling out from under the towel a third time, the little HUSSY flew off at a very low altitude and into our garden — where the hostas, lilies of the valley and ferns reside — then sheltered under a really huge hosta. Now, this specific hosta is quite exceptional. It’s TREMENDOUS. It could win awards. Its leaves have a blueish hue and stand proudly off the ground. It’s PERKY. Quite the presentation. My ex is a master gardener.

I had to admit, the little SHITHEAD had good taste. She was resplendent standing there, under the perky hosta, a study in dancing light and shades of green. It was magical.

I’m being serious here. I wish I’d had a camera.

OK, it was nerve-wracking, really, and the adrenaline was taking its toll. I had to leave for my eye appointment, dammit, so in a last-ditch effort, I grabbed a small stick and gently tapped the little fool’s feet with it.

“This is your last chance, bird. I have to leave. If you stay in the yard, you’re on your own. I won’t hurt you. Choose WISELY.”

I can’t believe it, but there it was. I actually said that to an arrogant, ungrateful, SELFISH little bird who had just cleverly strategized her escape. To my credit, though, I said it in a stern, but gentle, manner. The very last thing I needed was for this thing to get spooked and take flight again, into my other neighbor’s yard. I drew the line at that. The pursuit would come to a close. It would be finished. KAPUT.

And then it happened. I swear that little DUNCE actually assessed the situation — she cocked her head, looked me up and down — you know how birds eye you from the side, it’s weird — shrugged her shoulders, and with a huge, sigh of resignation, she condescendingly hopped onto the stick.

It was amazing. I was in awe. I trembled with excitement. I was… honored.

At this point, I was also really, really late, so I rushed birdie into the house and grabbed an antique birdcage — which really wasn’t well-suited for anything; I don’t know HOW the birds of the past put up with such ‘accommodations’; I would’ve been LIVID — and got birdie all settled in.

FINALLY, I left for my eye appointment. It was all I had imagined it would be. And more. About 90 minutes later — and with my eyes fully dilated, on a sunny day (remember?) — I drove to a pet store.

Have you ever driven with your eyes fully dilated on a bright, sunny day? Sunglasses don’t help.

But that’s neither here nor there, is it? The fact remains that I loaded up on bird necessities and sundries, including a decent cage, food, treats, toys, etc., then drove home. With my eyes fully dilated on a bright, sunny, squint- and tear-inducing day.

Now you may be thinking, “Victoria, that sounds like an AWFUL lot to go through just for an ungrateful SHIT of a parakeet.”

And you’d be right.

Furthermore, I’d never had a bird before — over 50 years of just cats — so this was totally new to me. I mean, it was late August, it was a hot and sunny day, very bright, remember; I was minding my own damn business being lazy; and the last thing I anticipated was rescuing an ornery, ARROGANT, stubborn, ungrateful ASSHOLE of a parakeet. And shelling out over $75 for the honor.

But these things happen. Bobby and Frankie had died the previous fall (RIP, sweet boys), and I had a rescued Pomeranian with residual behavioral issues — nothing major. He’s actually perfect now. A pampered pup. A sweetheart. Smart as fuck. I’m in love. His name is Zippy.

I tell you all of this just to give you the backdrop to birdie’s new living accommodations. There were no sneaky cats. The pom was uninterested, working on his residual behavioral issues and being a VERY good boy. There was agape love in the air. The energy was FABULOUS.

With birdie safely in her brand-spanking-new cage, I buckled down to research just what I had gotten myself into.

Parakeets can live 10-15 years. Did you know that? This bird of unknown provenance was also of an indeterminate age. I only knew that she was older. Also, that she was a female. Sadly, I could expect no fancy singing. That’s the realm of male birds.

My girl? She screeches. She’s a BANSHEE.

It took a few months, but we got into a nice rhythm. We tried to bond. That didn’t happen. I tried taming her. That didn’t happen. She expects food and her music — she fancies Greek bouzouki tunes — and screeches if I don’t bring in my iPad IMMEDIATELY.

She ruled the roost. Still does.

Then one day, apropos of nothing, a thought wormed its way into my head: This bird didn’t escape from her previous home. No, sirree. This bird didn’t accidentally get locked out of her house. This bird wasn’t merely lost.

No, this bird was intentionally set loose. Booted out. EVICTED.

For being foul-tempered. Yes, I could see it clearly now. Who’d want to put up with such an ungrateful, foul fowl?

Who, indeed?

But once I rescue a creature, I’m committed. They’re with me for life.

Yes, birdie is still with me today, ornery as ever. Very healthy. I swear she’s happy. She still loves bouzouki music, bless her tiny, little, evil heart.

Her name is Zelda.

And she’s awesome.

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