Cookie Bird

"He gave you a bird?!?" Trice yelled from the kitchen. Flour accented every part of her face, arms, and blouse. She was elbow deep in a bowl of dough, making her famous chocolate chip cookies. She always made baked goods for the room-tenants on the holidays, made avoiding going home that much easier.

"Yeah..." I held up the small cage, "Said it would be good for me."

The small bird of yellow and white hopped about on the newspaper clad bottom, chirping incessantly. It was really starting to get on my nerves. I sighed and placed the cage on the floor. Trice’s cookie dough smelled amazing, and best of all, completely Vegan.

"He called it a 'Yellow-bellied Prinia,' said it was quite exotic..." I shrugged as I walked into the kitchen. "Do you think it's a bit racist though? Just cause my family is from Mumbai, he gave me a bird from India. Kind of insensitive I would think. The birds not even native to Mumbai."

Trice lifted her head, wiping her hands on the bowl's edge to keep as much of the dough in the as possible. She wasn't very successful. "I dunno, is that why he said he gave you the bird?" she replied. "Maybe he thought the colors were nice? Racist wouldn't have been my first guess. Though it is a little psychotic to give someone a pet without them bringing it up first.”

I nodded my head. Dean was always a little… well, short-sighted… when it came to the social implications and ramifications of his actions. Well-meaning, always, but he seldom thought things through. We’d only been going out for 6 months now, and he was talking about things like marriage, kids, family-vacations, retirement homes… it was all just too much. I still hadn’t finished my doctorate, gotten a job, or done anything outside of going to class for the last two decades.

I wanted all those things he talked about, I just wanted to do so much more before I was saddled with all the responsibilities of being a spouse, parent, “responsible citizen.” I liked Dean enough to think about marrying him, but after only 6 months? Who could be that sure… the whole thing was just a little uncomfortable, doubly so now with a bird, which thankfully had stopped chirping. I didn’t know the first thing about bird-care, and really didn’t want to learn how. A problem to be sorted out later.

I grabbed a spoon from the drawer below me and made my way to the bowl while Trice was focused on the oven. The best thing about the holidays was Trice’s baking. A wooden spoon came out of nowhere to smack me across the knuckles, forcing a yelp out of me as I dropped the spoon.

“You can wait until after I’ve made the cookies before helping yourself,” Trice scolded. She always furrowed her brow when she was serious. I took the hint and decided best not to push things. “Why don’t you go find a nice corner to put the bird in,” she continued, “somewhere out of the way so the rest of the tenants aren’t tripping over it.”

“Yeah, I’ll go put him up in my room,” I replied, shaking my hand to wear off the stinging. As I rounded the table, I looked down to grab the empty cage… Empty Cage!!

“Crap!” Sweat broke out on my forehead, “the cage is open.”

“What?” Trice’s voice raised an octave, “did you lose it already?” She darted her gaze back and forth, wildly swinging her wooden spoon. “You better find it before I do. I’ll not have it running about my kitchen! I run a clean place.”

“He can’t have gotten far, I only looked away for a second.” I looked around the floor for a little flash of yellow. It didn’t help that Trice hadn’t updated her carpet since the 1970s, so it was decked out in psychedelic oranges, reds, and yellows. The perfect camouflage for an escapee. “Perhaps you should get your baked goods into the oven before he takes flight into the kitchen.”

“Good idea. Last thing these cookies need is a little pheasant,” Trice turned around and opened the oven, cranking the heat up. Keeping her gaze raised towards the ceiling, she scooped several spoonfuls of dough on three baking trays, quickly shoving them in the oven and cranking the heat up.

Meanwhile, I was scouring underneath all of Trice’s chairs. I can’t believe I lost it after an hour… Dean was such an idiot for giving me a bird. And if I can’t take care of a bird, what makes him think we’d be ready for kids? Maybe that was the point…

I shook my head as I lifted off the ground. No bird, not even a feather. Dean probably wasn’t giving me the bird as a test, I’m just overthinking things as usual. I combed the bookcase, pushed back the credenza (whatever that means), looked under lampshades… nothing. 

Wiping away the beads of panic sweat from my brow, my ears perked up. Was that a chirping sound?

“Trice, do you hear that?” I asked. She looked up from the sink, craning her head to the side like a stork.

“Yeah, sounds like the bird. Where’s it coming from?” she looked left and right. Like a hound with a scent, Trice wandered the kitchen. I followed her, straining to hear the chirps. They sounded muffled, but close by. Like it was tucked behind a cabinet, or a … Oh, no!

I slammed my face against the oven window. Flapping around the oven, bouncing off the scorching surfaces, the little bird was chirping… no, screeching…

“Trice! Why is the bird in the oven!?!” I slammed the oven door open and reached in. Brushing my hand against the sides of the cookie pans felt like brushing against the sun. Why won’t the bird just stay put for one, measly, second.

A few more burns and a mess of hot cookie dough everywhere and I managed to grab the stupid bird. Well, at least I know one rule for taking care of a bird: Don’t let it in the oven.