Grab breakfast, get gas, pick up some fruit for the week, go kayaking, finish necessary paperwork.
I wasn't even going to attempt to clean my apartment. Just get the above list done.
My plans have been derailed, however, thanks to a male Chestnut Flanked White Zebra Finch.
See, as I was walking into the grocery store, I see the manager moving this overturned shopping basket with his feet, with two bag boys trailing behind him.
One of the bag boys is saying, "Dude! Be careful!"
The other bag boy is saying, "Dude! I've never seen a bird like that before."
I trundle on over and what do my eyes see?
A finch. A terrified finch.
Thinks I, "Oh, shit."
Out loud I said, "Wait! It's a finch!"
Manager stops and gives me a beady-eyed glare while the bag boys are all, "Cool! You know what it is! Ummm, what are we supposed to do with it?"
The manager figures it should be let go to fly free. I kind of get in his face and tell him that there is no way this is a wild bird. It was someone's pet, which may have escaped or may have been let go. Either way, it's a dead bird if he just lets it go.
I look around and realize that we've now drawn a crowd, some of them looking like tough ol' truck drivers. They all look pretty stricken that this little bird will die if it flies free. Which was kind of sweet, really. These tough 40-ish guys with their tough 40-ish women are worried about a bird that doesn't even tip the scale at an ounce.
What happens next I can only blame on peer pressure, really, because the last thing I need is a second bird, especially when I know George the Amazing Lovebird will be positively, absolutely pissed that I brought another bird into his territory.
But here I've got the working class of Waltham with their eyes fixed on me with a, "You're not going to let the bird die are you?"
Thinks I, "Oh double shit."
So I fix my eye on one of the bag boys and tell him to get me a box.
Manager huffs at the other bag boy and says that he has one.
Bag boy number two holds up a folded up box and says, "One, this is two big. Two, I have to put it together."
Before manager explodes into pieces, I say that the box is fine, just tape together the bottom so the bird can't escape.
Bag boy and manager departs.
I'm now left with an even bigger crowd.
"How the hell you gonna get the bird out of there?" says one of the truck drivers.
"Ummmm, try to capture it?" I hazard a guess.
In any case, the whole operation quickly goes south. The bird, who was kind of stressed out and tired, makes a break for it.
Now, I want you to picture this:
A teeeny-tiiiiny finch flying like a bat out of hell chased by more than a half-dozen truck drivers, their wives, and now three bag boys, plus me.
I feel guilty for thinking this, but I was kind of hoping the finch would get away because I don't need George giving me shit, not to mention that I don't want another bird. Jesus Christ!
However, today was finchy-face's lucky day and not so much mine.
The stressed out exhausted bird pretty much collapses on the ground right near an electrical transformer in a caged area. One of the bag boys just happens to have a key to get in. And one of the truck drivers who was really and truly stricken that the sweet little bird would die without human intervention scoops it up in his shovel like hands before the bird can even get its bearings.
The bird — which I've now mentally dubbed, "That Lucky Little Shit" aka "Lucky" for short — is presented to me like it's the Hope Diamond and I am the Lucky Little Princess To Whom It Belongs.
Thinks I, "Oh, triple shit."
Right on cue, bag boy with box returns to the scene and is proudly bearing a box.
Truck driver gently places That Lucky Little Shit into the box, the box is shut, and handed to me with cheers all around.
It appears I now have a new bird, whether I want one or not.
A rictus smile spreads across my face, and I thank everyone for their part in the bird rescue. I then trudge over to my car with the box hugged to my chest to bring the box with its tiny cargo home.
Thankfully George has a small travel cage where I can stow the bird. Thankfully, I've got millet (the rest of George's food is way to big and hard for the little nipper's beak) to feed it.
George's reaction is exactly what I expected.
As I carried the travel cage with That Lucky Little Shit inside, George's immediate reaction was the side-eye, like so:
Then George gifted me with Disapproval:
What followed next was an explosive bird-y temper tantrum of epic — and I mean epic — proportions.
All over a bird that looks like this:
Upon hearing the sound of another bird going absolutely, positively Off His Rocker, That Lucky Little Shit perked right up, and began eating his face off. Then he began preening. Then he took a nap.
Meanwhile, George is going out of his Little Birdy Mind.
In any case, That Lucky Little Shit is now napping, and George has been soothed with hugs and kisses on his feathery head.
And I...I have to go to PetCo. My plans for going kayaking are pretty much shot for the day.
I'd be more upset if I didn't get out on the water yesterday for awhile, so I supposed I can kiss it up to Fate.
Man, a new bird. I so didn't need a new bird.
At least George will forgive me...
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