rudderless

Mike

Two months into the full-time living aboard we have made a big decision. Our dear parakeet is not making the trip North with us. Tomorrow Mike will join a veritable kindergarten of other parakeets at a lovely local pet shop (where birds are literally free to roam!). He will be happier, but we will miss him- especially Sophie. It comes down to an issue of space, temperament, and fairness. We will soon be off the dock and the hatches will be open all day long. Parakeets need temperatures in the mid-70s all the time, and are susceptible to drafts. Unlike Mike, we are not creatures meant for the Tropics. Sophie spent most of the morning complaining that Key West is “just a hot place.”

We do our best to keep him warm, but he has been nothing but grumpy and bitey recently, leaving us with even less motivation to get him out and about. He is growing up, ready to fly and needs more space. Keeping him caged and swinging with the boat’s motion seems downright cruel. The pet shop owner says that he’s probably molting and will eventually be less grumpy. But our living situation isn’t changing soon, and for a bird who needs constant tropical conditions, we can’t justify making him more grumpy. He would frankly hate Maine.

I think both of us feel torn about sending Sophie the message that pets are temporary- will she wonder when the next one will get returned or passed on? But on the flipside, there’s the question of what is best for the animal. And being with us, in this case, is surely not the best situation for Mike. We’ve tried to emphasize the “this is what’s best for him” part, the unselfishness of her decision, but deep down we’re fairly selfish for wanting and keeping a bird in the first place, not to mention giving him up! Ah, the conundrums of parenthood . . . In the end he’s had a nice life with us and will have a nice life in petland, wherever that takes him. Perhaps I’m giving too much weight to the question of a bird. A birdbrain, afterall.

John broke the news to Sophie and she was bereft, until talk of a puppy emerged. A puppy in Maine, on land, not before. Ahem.
She wrote a letter to her friend Johnathan to tell him about Mike. It was her way of processing it. We drew a picture together. He was a lovely pet, I must say. And will be missed, by all of us. Even Rosy, who imitates his “shuffle dance” and calls him “Michael.” Mikey Mike, here’s to happy life where you can have a girlfriend and all the honey treats a bird deserves. We will not soon forget your green feathers and your close-quarters flights in the boat. Or the time you flew onto the neighboring catamaran, and then back, petrified of what you were capable of. Thank you for being Sophie’s first real pet.

I can guarantee he won’t be the last.