The Budgie - by Jing Cramb
ISLAND | ONLINE ONLY
My son couldn’t even say the word ‘dog’ back then; he called it a ‘dug’. It was cute but I was not moved by his cuteness nor any puppy’s cuteness – I was in the middle of a divorce. Not to mention that I was bitten on the leg by a stray village dog when I was young. Over the years, the reasons for not getting a dog evolved into three questions: Who is going to walk the dog every day? Who will be responsible for collecting the poo? How much will it cost to own a dog? My son and I both knew it was the answer to the last question that left us dogless, but we never admitted it, as if keeping the same secret from each other and assuming the other person did not know.
This didn’t stop my son from making the same wish on every birthday. I was accustomed to seeing the boy’s tears because his birthday present was never a dog. His cries seemed to come from deep inside, as if he were mourning the dead. Even at my mother’s funeral I did not cry the way he did. I couldn’t handle the boy’s crying. I wanted to slap him, but instead I yelled, ‘Just toughen up, you wuss!’ And then I would walk around the garden or lock myself in my room until he finished.
Of course, I offered alternatives. ‘What about a fish?’ I suggested. ‘I found a fish tank at the kerbside.’ I’d done my research: fish were cheap. ‘Silkworms? We don’t have to worry about feeding them,’ I said, as I pointed at the mulberry tree in the garden. ‘How about a frog?’ I was desperate.
We settled on a budgie, so I took him to the pet store. Gently holding a blue-and-white budgie in his hands, my son closed his eyes, smiled, and dinked his nose on the bird’s head. He named her Raphy.
He talked to the bird day and night. If he wasn’t in his room, he was there, in front of the cage, chatting softly to the bird. I pretended not to notice when I found him showing the bird funny videos on my phone and reading her stories. The first time the bird followed his command, landed on his head and then fed off his hand, my son cried with happiness. He’d walk around the house with the bird perched on his shoulder. With surprising confidence, he announced that he would train Raphy to stay on his shoulder so they could go for an outside walk together one day.
But this training did not happen. The bird was attacked through her cage by a group of mynas. By the time we went to the rescue, Raphy could not stand. The only vet open late on a Sunday was a 24-hour animal hospital. I did not like the sound of it. Anything associated with ‘hospital’ has a golden price tag. I would rather have taken the bird to a park somewhere far away and left it there. But my son was watching through his weepy eyes.
‘We need to do an x-ray and see what we can do from there,’ said the vet, taking the bird, wrapped in a towel as if it was antique porcelain.
The wait was long.
I regretted not asking the cost of the x-ray.
‘He seems distraught,’ said the woman sitting opposite me with a chihuahua. ‘Poor boy. I hope the budgie will be fine.’
‘Her name is Raphy and I love her very much,’ the boy said, lifting his head and wiping tears from his face.
Love? What does a boy know about love? Love carries so many conditions and is highly unreliable. How long is your love for the bird going to last? One month? One year? A year would be the max. That’s why people buy a new pet when the old one dies.
I rolled my eyes and told the woman, ‘Don’t worry, he has been like this since he was a baby. Always crying over little things.’
The woman’s chihuahua barked and she apologised, telling me the dog was waiting for cancer surgery. ‘It must cost a fortune,’ I sympathised, guessing the cost in my head. I was glad I did not have a dog.
The vet came out with the x-ray showing a tiny broken bone, like a thin white line. ‘Would you like the budgie to have surgery now? It has a broken leg.’
‘Is it expensive?’ I whispered. I did not want the boy and the woman to hear me.
‘$1750 for the surgery.’
‘$1750.’ I let the number sink in.
‘Could Raphy get the surgery, Mum?’ The boy pleaded.
‘Do you have pet insurance? It will reduce the cost significantly,’ the vet said.
‘No, I don’t.’ I didn’t even have health insurance for myself.
‘Mum, get Raphy the surgery.’ The boy tugged my shirt and I swatted his hand.
‘It’s too expensive for us. Are there any other ways to help the bird?’ I knew the woman was listening, but I chose not to care anymore.
The vet looked at the boy and then looked at me. He lowered his voice. ‘The other option would be to get the bird euthanised, which I do not recommend.’
‘What is euthanised, Mum? Is it a type of surgery?’ the boy asked.
I did not say anything.
‘Don’t worry. We will choose the second option then.’
‘What is it, Mum? What is it? Is it going to help Raphy?’ The boy’s eyes lit up with hope.
I saw the woman shake her head and check her phone. The chihuahua barked at me again. Such an annoying dog.
‘Before you do it, how much does it cost?’ I asked.
The vet glanced at the boy. ‘$250.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Sorry, I’ve changed my mind. I think we’ll take the bird home.’
‘Mum, we can’t take Raphy home. She’s injured. She needs to be euthanised here to get better.’ The boy looked confused.
I lowered my body to look him in the eyes. ‘But we don’t have the money.’
‘But if we take her home without being euthanised, she will die!’ the boy yelled.
‘Can’t I just buy you a new bird?’
‘No! I want my Raphy! She’s my family!’
‘Excuse me,’ said the woman with the chihuahua, ‘Isn’t it better to let the vet get Raphy euthanised?’
What the fuck? Instantly, the woman turned into my enemy. ‘Is it your bird? Why do I need your advice?’
‘Sorry, I just thought it would be the best option for the bird.’
‘Do you have $250 to pay for a $30 bird to be put down by a professional? Mind your own business!’
‘Mum! Are you going to kill my Raphy?’ the boy shouted. He grabbed my hand so tightly it hurt.
The animal hospital was so quiet without the woman and her irritating chihuahua. I did not know what to say to my son. I thought about the fish I’d had for a week when I was about his age. The fish my mum had bought for the New Year celebration dinner. It splashed so much water when she took it from the bucket – its temporary home. On the chopping board, the fish’s gills opened and closed desperately and then I heard the meat cleaver’s ‘bam’ and I covered my eyes. The smell made me want to vomit. I had to mop the floor while I cried like my son. How silly was I, crying over a fish destined to be eaten, just because I’d fed it for a few days? Did I talk to the fish as my son did to his bird? That was what love made me, I concluded, all soft and weak. I put a hand on my son’s shoulder, but he jumped away from me as if burnt.
I waited for him to calm down. What options did I have? But he was still sobbing, holding the small cardboard box with the bird inside.
‘You only care about money,’ he said between his sniffly tears.
‘Yes, I do. Without money I can’t stay in this expensive country and raise you by myself.’ I wanted to tell him how I almost stole toilet paper from the immigration office when I was there to get my student visa. How a customer had put his hand on my arse as I served him coffee at the University Cafe, but I pretended it didn’t happen so I could keep my job. How I was asked to go out on a date I refused because I knew I could not afford to pay for my half of the dinner, even though I liked the guy.
My son stopped crying and, without looking at me, murmured, ‘I hate you.’
It was just what I had said to my mum when the fish was killed.
‘When I grow up, I’m going to make a lot of money. A lot of money. Shit loads of money.’ My son stared at me, tough and cold, like a grown-up had suddenly emerged from his boy’s body.
I took his hand but he yanked it away. I looked at the bird. Its eyes were closed.
Image: Alexander Grey (modified)
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