Happenstance leads to Disabled Pet therapy and Creative Story Writing with Poetry

byJLanford

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4 months ago

Table of Contents

Terrorized?

HA!

Try being PARROTIZED!~

Is a short memoir by Jill Lanford, 12 days post rescuing a young Golden Capped Conure of Unknown Gender.

“Dang it, MARK,” I secretly thought as my power chair went on, “Caution,” leaving me at a snail’s pace on the sidewalk. Ah yes, Fresno Summers and today was only 104 degrees…. My dearest Brother Mark had found a way to duct tape my power chair to keep it from bouncing from the beautiful “Green” button to the dreaded “Yellow” or caution button, one slight step from being on “Red” and dead….

I kept telling people I’d been handicapped…crap! I can’t say that; that is the “N” word for the disabled. It was actually coined post WWI when the British soldiers stood around London with their cap in hand, praying that one of many passers-by would drop a shilling/copper/pence in while they leaned on wooden legs with an empty sleeve pinned up. Ok, as usual, I digress. . .

Today is 11AUG2014, and on 11SEP2014, it will be exactly six years since I’ve been whizzing around in a power chair at 6.5 mph. But six years is a long time in the Life of a Power Chair…or should I say Powerless Chair! And six years living alone with daily challenges is an even longer time than any other six years in my 55 years in this meat suit. I suppose God had plans for my lonely time to end. Or the Fates had caused my chair to creep under 1 mph on this particularly hot afternoon, since if I’d been zipping along at 6 to almost 7 mph, I’d have missed that flash of GREEN that Wallace Stevens so eloquently wrote about in “Sunday Morning” one of my favorite poems.

My chair stopped easily as I first laid eyes on this droopy but bright green bird with a small reddish/orange/yellow patch on its head. Creeping my disabled chair forward, hoping not to scare him, (I thought of this bird as a “Him” and have since found out I need a DNA test to determine what gender he actually is!) He was perched on a trash can in the corner of Whole Foods Market, just past a Pet Store.

Instinctively I held my finger out before he wobbled over into the trash can to end up a beautiful, feathered bit of refuse. He eyed me briefly and gently, foot by foot, perched on my index finger. Slowly, since that was the only speed, my chair went on “Caution” I retraced my treads to the Pet Store where a young, albeit unhelpful, girl graced the store counter:

“Did you lose a bird?” I inquired

“No” she sheepishly replied. “We don’t carry birds. You need to go to Whities Pet Store.”

“This bird is severely dehydrated. Could you at least get a bowl of water for it?” I pleaded.

“No, we don’t do things like that HERE,” she retorted, “You NEED to go to WHITIES; they are the Bird Store!”

“Do you see me in a wheelchair, I said with growing frustration; I CAN’T GET TO WHITIES!”

So, calming myself as I watched the poor bird droop in hand, I asked her for the most miniature, cheapest bird food. She sauntered off, and after bringing it back, I asked for a paper bag.

“Why?” she snorted. “Because this poor bird may try to freak out and fly into Shaw Ave traffic before my broken chair can get him to some WATER.”

After producing the bag, I gently put him in, placed the WRONG seed in my catch-all and proceeded to CRAWL home. He pecked a bit at the bag, so I was happy to know he still had the will to fight, and my 2-minute trip home turned into a maddening 15 minutes.

Knowing I had a small water fountain in my kitchen, I immediately put him on its lip. He drank repeatedly while I poured out some food on my bread board on my (For a while, clean tile.) He gladly jumped up on my finger and proceeded to peck at the seeds. Thinking he was occupied, I turned the chair around to creep over to my air conditioning, wanting to get things cooled off for my new feathered friend.

Stopping immediately as I heard his wings in the air, he landed on my left shoulder, preferring my company to the food he obviously needed. Yep, you got it….my heart was captured! Any starving creature who prefered a person over survival….their A-OK with me!

My computer was temporarily out of order, so a girlfriend searched the Fresno Bee, Craig’s List, and Facebook for missing birds in the Fig Garden area. Thankfully, none was listed. Several of my friends said he’s just a God-Given companion, and if his owners are supposed to have him, God will connect us.

While this was comforting to think of, I hemmed and hawed for a few days as I bought toys, and Mark brought over a three-story cage. (The first night, I had a laundry basket tipped over one of my chucks. I’d placed a wide, shallow bowl of water so he could drink and bathe, along with a tin mayonnaise lid to hold his food. I couldn’t help laughing out loud when he tipped the food over and, using its metal sound, started tapping on the glass bowl!) Oh, MY Goodness! He was a Parrot Cowboy locked in a Western jail using a tin cup against the iron bars, demanding better EVERYTHING! I filled his food again and draped him with a towel as I used to when keeping a much less exciting cockatiel in the early 80’s. (the only remarkable thing that Bird did was predict the big Coalinga Quake a few minutes before my Easton home turned into a rocking rowboat!)

The days passed and I thought about naming him Eli after my favorite paint gelding. But he was pretty rambunctious, so he reminded me of my dog trotting 8th-grade grad present, Geronimo’s Rebel (Reb), a broke son of a gun Quarter Horse off some ranch in Texas. (NO ONE ever taught that horse to walk, though, and while the trot was smooth and ate the ground as an endurance champ might, it was hell to pay to keep him slowed down to talk to whomever I rode with!)

But Rebel wasn’t quite right either….One of my ALL-TIME favorite actors, James Garner, had recently died. His only Oscar-nominated role was in a small but well-acted film called Murphy’s Romance, in which he played Murphy Jones. Yes, that seemed just about right, I decided. Murphy Jones, the Gold Capped Conure, had found a new home, a new flock member, and carved out a place in my heart to match many of my past, beloved pets.

But being an animal lover, I had to advertise a ”found” bird to make sure I was in the clear to keep him. Again, my friend placed an ad on Craig’s List, “Found Bird in Fig Garden Area. Identify to claim.” Only one person answered who’d lost a white Cockatiel….Big Sigh since that is the furthest thing you could compare this Conure to….

I must admit my ignorance of Conures…I’d heard the word and seen a wee bit of the documentary about the Parrots of Telegraph Hill in The City. My friend Janis went to her pet store where a HELPFUL employee assisted her in purchasing an appropriate book that identified Murphy as a Golden Capped Conure, very closely related to Sun and Jinaday Conures. He came with very little red on his breast and head but has been molting out more and more color as I continue to figure out how to feed him. Luckily, I got the book just before thinking about giving him some avocado…that’s a no-no, along with alcohol (No Brainer, but I remember getting a cat drunk as a teenager…humm…another tale for another memoir?) and the deadly chocolate…bad for dogs and birds, but a lonely gals BEST FRIEND! Scared a bit, I read tonight I should not be giving him my salted sunflower seeds as rewards since conures don’t process salt well…but his favorite is pecans…one step cheaper than the macadamia nuts I need for my new diet. Figure they are TOO fat for him!

And why is Murphy worthy of 1395 words so far? OMG! It’d take 100,000 more WORDS to explain that one. I’m SO guilty of anthropomorphizing animals, I guess I will cut this a bit short. But it’s hard NOT to when you see those intelligent eyes not missing a trick! When I thought I was training him, looking back on these 12 short days (The days are shorter now, that time of year, but Murphy makes them shorter since I have him to think of instead of just me, my neuropathy, and recent MVA)

One reason I probably found him weaving over the dark, stanky death of a trash can is he LOVES to gnaw on EVERYTHING: my chair (working again, THANKS to MARK!), my ears, my glasses-the ones I need to see with, and I’ve added a new item to my wardrobe, Parrot Shirt. A parrot shirt is one that can be chewed on, hopefully with big enough buttons that beaks can cut through but can be gladly traded for a piece of pecan.

Murphy’s only broken my skin once with his biting. Just the back of my proximal index knuckle, a small, superficial cut; he proceeded to lick that spot for the next two days. The first day, I thought he liked the way human meat tasted (It tastes just like Pork if you wanted to know, most people don’t.), but I wasn’t actively bleeding. He has the weirdest tongue, and it really tickles when he licks my ears, and it takes GREAT resolve not to react when he BITES my ears. Ignoring bad behavior and rewarding good is the way to train a parrot, I’ve read.

I hope he survives my ignorance in time for me to learn enough Parrot to co-habit peacefully, healthily, and Happily!

Love You, Murph! Jill Lanford

A Favorite Poem below: BOTH TOC AND POET ANALYTICS WRITTEN BY AI

"Sunday Morning" by Wallace Stevens is a significant and complex modernist poem that explores philosophical and existential themes. Here is an analysis of some key elements:

1. Nature and Religion:

· The poem begins with a woman contemplating the absence of a religious ritual on a Sunday morning. She chooses to experience the beauty of nature instead of attending church.

· Stevens juxtaposes the traditional religious setting with the natural world, suggesting a questioning of traditional religious beliefs in favor of a more secular and individualistic perspective.

2. Imagery and Symbolism:

· Stevens uses rich and vivid imagery throughout the poem to convey the speaker's thoughts and emotions. The description of the orange peel, for example, is a vivid and memorable image.

· Various symbols, such as the peacock, the jar, and the palm tree, are employed to represent different aspects of human experience and existence. The jar, for instance, symbolizes human-made artifice in contrast to natural beauty.

3. Philosophical Inquiry:

· The poem engages in a philosophical inquiry into the nature of reality, the existence of God, and the meaning of life. The woman's internal dialogue reflects a search for understanding and meaning beyond traditional religious structures.

· Stevens questions the idea of an afterlife and challenges traditional religious doctrines, suggesting that life should be lived fully in the present rather than in anticipation of a future reward.

4. Shifts in Tone and Perspective:

· There are shifts in tone and perspective throughout the poem, reflecting the complexity of the speaker's thoughts. The initial rejection of religious rituals gives way to a consideration of the grandeur of nature and the human experience.

· The poem doesn't offer a clear resolution but encourages readers to grapple with profound questions about existence and spirituality.

5. Language and Sound:

· Stevens employs intricate language and sound patterns, contributing to the poem's musicality and complexity. The use of alliteration, consonance, and assonance enhances the auditory experience.

· The poem's language reflects Stevens' belief in the transformative power of poetry and art, suggesting that these creative expressions can provide a meaningful substitute for traditional religious experiences.

In conclusion, "Sunday Morning" is a rich and contemplative poem that challenges conventional religious beliefs and explores the human experience in relation to nature, art, and spirituality. The complex imagery, philosophical inquiries, and shifts in tone make it a nuanced and thought-provoking work in the realm of modernist poetry.

Sunday Morning

Wallace Stevens, 1879 - 1955

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late

Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,

And the green freedom of a cockatoo

Upon a rug mingle to dissipate

The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.

She dreams a little, and she feels the dark

Encroachment of that old catastrophe,

As a calm darkens among water-lights.

The pungent oranges and bright, green wings

Seem things in some procession of the dead,

Winding across wide water, without sound.

The day is like wide water, without sound,

Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet

Over the seas, to silent Palestine,

Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.

Why should she give her bounty to the dead?

What is divinity if it can come

Only in silent shadows and in dreams?

Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,

In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else

In any balm or beauty of the earth,

Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?

Divinity must live within herself:

Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;

Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued

Elations when the forest blooms; gusty

Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;

All pleasures and all pains, remembering

The bough of summer and the winter branch.

These are the measures destined for her soul.

III

Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.

No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave

Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind

He moved among us, as a muttering king,

Magnificent, would move among his hinds,

Until our blood, commingling, virginal,

With heaven, brought such requital to desire

The very hinds discerned it, in a star.

Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be

The blood of paradise? And shall the earth

Seem all of paradise that we shall know?

The sky will be much friendlier then than now,

A part of labor and a part of pain,

And next in glory to enduring love,

Not this dividing and indifferent blue.

She says, “I am content when wakened birds,

Before they fly, test the reality

Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;

But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields

Return no more, where then, is paradise?”

There is not any haunt of prophecy,

Nor any old chimera of the grave,

Neither the golden underground, nor isle

Melodious, where spirits gat them home,

Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm

Remote on heaven’s hill, that has endured

As April’s green endures; or will endure

Like her remembrance of awakened birds,

Or her desire for June and evening, tipped

By the consummation of the swallow’s wings.

She says, “But in contentment I still feel

The need of some imperishable bliss.”

Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,

Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams

And our desires. Although she strews the leaves

Of sure obliteration on our paths,

The path sick sorrow took, the many paths

Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love

Whispered a little out of tenderness,

She makes the willow shiver in the sun

For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze

Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.

She causes boys to pile new plums and pears

On disregarded plate. The maidens taste

And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.

Is there no change of death in paradise?

Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs

Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,

Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,

With rivers like our own that seek for seas

They never find, the same receding shores

That never touch with inarticulate pang?

Why set the pear upon those river-banks

Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?

Alas, that they should wear our colors there,

The silken weavings of our afternoons,

And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!

Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,

Within whose burning bosom we devise

Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.

VII

Supple and turbulent, a ring of men

Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn

Their boisterous devotion to the sun,

Not as a god, but as a god might be,

Naked among them, like a savage source.

Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,

Out of their blood, returning to the sky;

And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,

The windy lake wherein their lord delights,

The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,

That choir among themselves long afterward.

They shall know well the heavenly fellowship

Of men that perish and of summer morn.

And whence they came and whither they shall go

The dew upon their feet shall manifest.

VIII

She hears, upon that water without sound,

A voice that cries, “The tomb in Palestine

Is not the porch of spirits lingering.

It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.”

We live in an old chaos of the sun,

Or old dependency of day and night,

Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,

Of that wide water, inescapable.

Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail

Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;

Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;

And, in the isolation of the sky,

At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make

Ambiguous undulations as they sink,

Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

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