We’re all well aware of the dangers of the animal kingdom. We’ve seen the photos of victims of shark attacks – people with massive chunks of flesh and/or limbs missing – we’ve heard tales of cougar attacks, we’ve witnessed the scarred visages of humans bitten by dogs. We know that humans have fallen prey to the occasional warped bear, and that horses can kick their longtime rider. What most of us have not had to deal with, however, is the horror of the vicious Mean Green Petula Machine.
Petula is the worst kind of terror: She is tiny – perhaps three inches in height – and is rounded in the loveliest manner. Her feathers are made up of various shades of green, and her plump little belly extends in front of her like a friendly little Buddha’s. A small, well-formed beak fronts her cute little face, and intelligent brown button-eyes peer out at the world from the sides of her well-proportioned head. The entire package is – to be completely truthful – delightful. This is most unfortunate, as it causes many people to fall into THE TRAP.
Petula, you see, is prone to episodes of EVIL. Her reservoir of wickedness is ever-refilling and tends to manifest at the most surprising times. Consider, for example, an incident relayed to me by my Significant Other (henceforth to be known as SO.) According to my SO, he was innocently occupying himself in front of the entertainment center one fine afternoon, paying not a smidgen of attention to the bird cages about three feet to his left. Earlier in the day, being the caring fellow that he is, he took it upon himself to open the bird cages to let the birds stretch their little legs by running back and forth between each other’s cage. [This, my friends, is where he made his first naïve mistake. NEVER think that you’re going to get on Petula’s good side by being nice to her. At best, you’ll stay temporarily off of her black list. The way to the good list is long and forbidding.] As my SO continued about his business, he was – without warning – attacked from the left by a small green flying MONSTER. Before he even realized what was going on, Petula had attached herself to the left side of his face and begun a biting frenzy, her small beak a blur, her wings propelling her closer to the targeted skin.
Just as Petula readied herself to take on the secondary enemy – his glasses – my SO reached up and managed to grab her in his hand. [There are definite disadvantages to being a mere three inches tall. (Six if you count the tail feathers.)] The worst part about this story is that it is not the first time that such an incident has occurred. Petula once lobbed herself at her grandma in a similar tactic, and has even taken smaller leaping attacks toward me – her very own mother. There is clearly a faulty gene in this bird’s genetic makeup. I suspect that it’s the very same gene that many successful sports coaches possess.
Petula was acquired to be a companion bird to her older brother – Keats the cockatiel. Unfortunately for Keats, it took Petula approximately .0005 seconds to establish herself as the queen of the castle by – once again without warning – violently attacking her new big brother. Poor Keats has never recovered. The moment of the initial attack, most of the hard-earned bird knowledge that he had in his head was vaporized by the shock. To this day, I still catch him attempting futilely to recite the notes of "Sleigh Ride." Also lost were such favorites as "the wolf whistle" and key segments of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.
Still, it is certain that Keats is less lonely than he used to be. For one thing, he has no time to consider it - what with having to keep a constant eye on Petula, who is prone to attacking him whenever and wherever the mood strikes. He’s not the only one. While I am the chosen object of Petula’s deepest adoration, her affection does not save me when she is possessed by The Fury. I am still trying to figure out what lesson I am to learn from this bird. What is it about her – this creature that is, by turn, either attacking me or whining nonstop for my attention – that, once I understand it, will strengthen my character? All I know for certain is that – until I have mastered this mystery – I’ll be sure to wear safety goggles at all times when within a ten-foot radius of her cage.
Petula is the worst kind of terror: She is tiny – perhaps three inches in height – and is rounded in the loveliest manner. Her feathers are made up of various shades of green, and her plump little belly extends in front of her like a friendly little Buddha’s. A small, well-formed beak fronts her cute little face, and intelligent brown button-eyes peer out at the world from the sides of her well-proportioned head. The entire package is – to be completely truthful – delightful. This is most unfortunate, as it causes many people to fall into THE TRAP.
Petula, you see, is prone to episodes of EVIL. Her reservoir of wickedness is ever-refilling and tends to manifest at the most surprising times. Consider, for example, an incident relayed to me by my Significant Other (henceforth to be known as SO.) According to my SO, he was innocently occupying himself in front of the entertainment center one fine afternoon, paying not a smidgen of attention to the bird cages about three feet to his left. Earlier in the day, being the caring fellow that he is, he took it upon himself to open the bird cages to let the birds stretch their little legs by running back and forth between each other’s cage. [This, my friends, is where he made his first naïve mistake. NEVER think that you’re going to get on Petula’s good side by being nice to her. At best, you’ll stay temporarily off of her black list. The way to the good list is long and forbidding.] As my SO continued about his business, he was – without warning – attacked from the left by a small green flying MONSTER. Before he even realized what was going on, Petula had attached herself to the left side of his face and begun a biting frenzy, her small beak a blur, her wings propelling her closer to the targeted skin.
Just as Petula readied herself to take on the secondary enemy – his glasses – my SO reached up and managed to grab her in his hand. [There are definite disadvantages to being a mere three inches tall. (Six if you count the tail feathers.)] The worst part about this story is that it is not the first time that such an incident has occurred. Petula once lobbed herself at her grandma in a similar tactic, and has even taken smaller leaping attacks toward me – her very own mother. There is clearly a faulty gene in this bird’s genetic makeup. I suspect that it’s the very same gene that many successful sports coaches possess.
Petula was acquired to be a companion bird to her older brother – Keats the cockatiel. Unfortunately for Keats, it took Petula approximately .0005 seconds to establish herself as the queen of the castle by – once again without warning – violently attacking her new big brother. Poor Keats has never recovered. The moment of the initial attack, most of the hard-earned bird knowledge that he had in his head was vaporized by the shock. To this day, I still catch him attempting futilely to recite the notes of "Sleigh Ride." Also lost were such favorites as "the wolf whistle" and key segments of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.
Still, it is certain that Keats is less lonely than he used to be. For one thing, he has no time to consider it - what with having to keep a constant eye on Petula, who is prone to attacking him whenever and wherever the mood strikes. He’s not the only one. While I am the chosen object of Petula’s deepest adoration, her affection does not save me when she is possessed by The Fury. I am still trying to figure out what lesson I am to learn from this bird. What is it about her – this creature that is, by turn, either attacking me or whining nonstop for my attention – that, once I understand it, will strengthen my character? All I know for certain is that – until I have mastered this mystery – I’ll be sure to wear safety goggles at all times when within a ten-foot radius of her cage.
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