Rosco

Can we all just collectively, as a society, agree that as soon as you put a parrot in a cage, it becomes a hellspawn? I can’t even say I blame them. If humans commit crimes, we stick them in cages. Birds are stuffed into cages for no discernable reason.

My mother loves birds, especially parrots. She has what she, very optimistically, calls a “menagerie.” It is in fact just a giant aviary with five parrots living in very close quarters. Did I mention this aviary is positioned very thoughtfully in our living room? It makes it near impossible to relax in front of the television. Ever. As soon as the birds see humans, they squawk their unnerving creeds continuously.

Every day my mom takes one of the parrots out of the cage and places him on her shoulder. The birds would have a “pleasant, out of cage day,” as she likes to call it. She would perform all tasks for the day with a bird firmly on her shoulder, even bringing the parrot to the shop with her. 

She has set up a schedule so that each bird has a whole day outside, “to make it fair for everyone.”

And for this reason, I hate Wednesdays. 

You see, Wednesdays belong to Rosco. Those are his “outside” days. Rosco is a gorgeous blue-throated macaw. He has handsome turquoise dorsal feathers and bright yellow chest feathers. He loves eating seeds and nuts, especially Brazil nuts. His favourite hobby is playing in the kitchen sink.

Did I mention Rosco hates me? 

Now, you might think that hate is a strong word to use when referring to anything, let alone an innocent little bird, right? You would be wrong.

Rosco lives to bully me. When he sees me entering the kitchen on Wednesday morning, he flies from my mother’s shoulder and digs his talons into my shoulder, before flying back and nestling comfortably on my mom’s shoulder yet again.

“He’s just saying good morning, honey,” my mom would say, without fail, every Wednesday, as blood drips down my arm. 

If I eat my breakfast too loudly, Rosco would make sure to traipse through my eggs, smearing the runny yolks all over the kitchen table with his tail feathers. Despite the obvious feather patterns all over the table, I would get blamed for the mess. 

Today is different. Today, Rosco seems to be ignoring me. He didn’t greet me with the sharp end of his feet. My breakfast has remained unmolested, despite my loud chewing. My chewing volume hasn’t really changed but Rosco always seems to think that my chewing is too loud, for his delicate parrot ear holes. 

“Mom, is Rosco ok?” I ask, more out of fear of what might come, than concern.

“He’s perfectly fine,” she says. “Aren’t you, my little prince? Yes, you are!” This is obviously directed at the bird, who returns this praise with a cutesy cuddle and a “kiss,” which is basically parrot speak for a nibble on the nose. 

“Right, hon, I need to go to work,” says my mom. “Will you be ok on your own today?”

“Yeah, I’m sure I’ll be ok,” I say, before returning to my room.

A short while later, there are two soft taps on my door.

“Mark?” 

“Yeah, Mom?” 

“I’m leaving now, sweetheart. There’s some leftovers in the fridge for lunch. I will be back by three, ok?” she says through the closed door.

“Ok Mom, see you later,” I answer.

I hear the backdoor click closed and shortly thereafter her car pulls away. I stretch out on my bed.

“Mark?” I hear my name being called from the passage, followed by two short taps on my door.

I freeze. It’s my mom’s voice and her knock. But it can’t be. I just heard her leave for work.

“Yeah, Mom?” I answer, but I am met with silence.

“Mark?” she calls again, giving two short knocks on my door.

I get up and open my door but I am met with a dark, empty passage. 

“Mark?” my mom calls again, this time from downstairs. Maybe she forgot something. 

“Yeah, Mom?”

“Mark? Mark!” she calls again. Getting frustrated I head downstairs.

I check the kitchen, but she is not there. Something strange is going on. I take my phone from my pocket and dial her number.

“Hey, hon, miss me already?” she says from the other end of the line, her voice smiling. I can’t hear her voice in the house. Background noise indicates that she is still in the car.

“Hey, are you home?”

There is a protracted silence.

“No hon, I told you I am going to work. I am on my way to work,” she says in a measured tone. “Are you feeling ok? Do you want me to come home rather?”

“No, no, I just thought you were still home,” I say, trying not to alarm her. “See you later, bye.”

Well, that was weird. I give myself some Victorian-style medical advice and head to the bathroom for a warm bath, which will be followed by a nap.

As soon as I settle into the warm bath, there are two soft naps on the door.

“Hello?” I say, tensing up. Okay, something very strange is happening here.

“Mark?” asks my mom’s voice again.

Drying myself quickly, I rip open the bathroom door, only to be met with nothing, once again. 

“Mark?” the voice is in her room now. I tie the towel around my waist and walk to her bedroom.

“Hello?” I say, entering her room.

All of a sudden, there is a flurry of wings. Rosco lands on my shoulder, digging his talons into my flesh. His sharp beak clamps down on my ear.

“Son of a…” I say, placing my hands firmly over his wings, pulling him away from my body. I feel aa a chunk of flesh detaches from my ear, leaving my body in Rosco’s mouth. 

“You stupid bird!” I shout, not letting go of his body. Who knows what else this murderous bird will do to me if he gets the chance.

I run downstairs, into the living room, still clasping Rosco in my hands. Rosco, for his part, is desperately pecking at my hands. I open the birdcage, which erupts into a cacophony of shrieks as soon as the other parrots see me, and throw Rosco in. I swear I could see a satisfied smile on his smug little beak, which is still glistening red from my blood.

I head back to the bathroom to assess the damage. My shoulder is on fire and I can feel warm blood dripping down my neck. My fingers have a few scrapes, where Rosco got in a few last hurrahs.

I give a cynical smirk, realising I look a bit like an extra from a bad horror movie.

Suddenly, my phone rings. “Mom” flashes on the called ID.

“Hi Mom,” I say, bringing the phone up to my unmangled ear. 

“Hi hon, sorry to bother you,” she says. “I decided not to bring Rosco to work with me today. Can you please go get him from my room and put him in the cage with his brothers?”

“Already done, Mom,” I sigh.

“Thanks, hon. He really does seem to be warming up to you, don’t you think?”

“Yep,” I say, gingerly touching my earlobe. At least the bleeding is starting to let up.