Paulie's Pretty Purple Birdie

PAULIE’S PRETTY PURPLE BIRDIE

(An Allegory about Self-Delusion)

Hi, I’m Paul. I’m in my 60s now, but I was only ten years old when I met Birdie.

I was living with my grandparents. It was the first week of summer vacation, and I was stuck at home – unable to go out and be with my friends because I had recently broken my leg, falling out of a tree. One day, as I sat on my porch swing crying in frustration, a purple dove landed on the porch railing and just stood there, watching me.

Moments later, the dove started making soft, cooing sounds as she ducked her head up and down. It sounded comforting, so I looked up at her with my tear-streaked face and muttered, “Hi.” The bird did a little side-to-side happy dance across the railing that forced a reluctant giggle from my choked-up vocal cords.

I wiped the tears from my face with my arms and decided to go inside to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich as a cheer-up treat. Grabbing a book and my plate, I went back out to the swing. The bird was still there, so I decided to pick off the bread crust and line the railing with little pieces of it for her (At least, I thought of the bird as a “her.”)

She ate as I read, then still she stayed. “Want me to read it to you?” I asked, expecting no response. The dove seemed to relax herself into a comfortable position, then looked at me. “Okay,” I said, and began reading to her.

“Out in the world, not much happened. But here in this special night, a land bricked with paper and leather, anything might happen, always did…” I paused to look at the bird. “It’s Ray Bradbury,” I told her. I read to the bird for a while, then decided to go inside and ask for some pain medication. As I opened the door to enter the house, I said, “Bye Birdie.” Birdie became my name for her.

Next day, I was again on the porch swing – no crying, just reading – when she appeared again. I was so surprised that I stopped reading and said, “Hi, are you coming to visit me?”

She settled into her comfortable pose, just as she had the previous day and sounded, “whoo-oo-ooo."

Well, I spent the rest of that summer sharing my reading adventures with Birdie. I really liked her. She seemed like a good friend, always attentive, patient, and entertaining me with her happy Birdie dance. When I paused in my reading, she would stand up, look at me and sound her signature call.

Each day, she stayed with me for about an hour in the early afternoon. She kept me company. She even hopped onto the swing occasionally and let me pet her head with my finger. I constructed a birdhouse and feeder for her and hung them from the porch ceiling (with some help from my granddad).

We visited uncharted worlds, fought against evil rulers, became lost in parallel universes, met fearsome creatures and helpful allies. We braved the jungles of Africa and the Amazon rain forests. We outsmarted cannibals and escaped wild carnivores by the skin of our teeth. We shared many adventures.

Late that summer, I was finally able to get around a bit. My cast was removed and I was given a removable walking support-boot. I could finally go out and be with my friends. Though I still couldn’t run, my friends made allowances for me, like letting me bat in the baseball games and allowing a surrogate runner to sprint the bases.

One rainy day, toward the end of summer, I sat reading to Birdie as she perched on my swing. My friend, Steven, came by to hang out. With his rain slicker blooming behind him, he rode his bicycle up the driveway and saw me on the porch, reading to Birdie. He hopped off of his bike at the bottom of the porch stairs and let it fall to the ground, as usual.

“Hey, whatcha doin’,” he said as he bolted up the stairs. “I heard you reading,” he said. “Who are you reading t - ?” He noticed Birdie and broke into gales of laughter. “You’re reading to a stupid bird?” he said. “Is that like your best bud or something? You really are a lost cause, you know?”

I didn’t say anything, just snapped my book closed and quickly went inside, slamming the door. I felt so angry, ashamed and confused. I’m sure my face was as red as hot coals. The next day, I went to baseball practice. Steven had told everyone his version of our encounter the day before. The guys who I thought were my friends called me names like bird-brain, retard, bird boy, bird fucker, and the lonely-ass gimp.

I threw my bat at Steven and left in an angry walk, not daring to look back or cry. I waited until I was far away before I began to cry and broke into a run, going home. When I dragged myself up the porch steps, Birdie was there.

My friends were back in my life, and I wanted to prove I was one of them – still worthy of being part of the group.

I was so angry. I blamed her as the cause of my humiliation. I went into the house and grabbed my BB gun. Seeing red, feeling hot embarrassment and cold fury, I decided (in typically unthinking boy fashion) to shoot Birdie and make her feel some of my pain; make her go away.

As I walked back out onto the porch with my BB gun, Birdie looked at me, tilting her head from side-to-side as though wondering what I was doing. I took aim and shot her.

The screeching sound she made as she fell from the porch railing was a sound I will never forget. That day I learned that all creatures have a sound for horrific pain that scorches something in your mind and tells you that they are in desperate need of immediate assistance. No language is needed. You know it when you hear it and it tears at your insides, tears at your heart and pleads, “Help me,” without a single word needing to be spoken.

I was stunned and speechless for a moment. Although I had never shot anything alive before, I didn’t think she would be hurt all that badly with a BB gun shot. I wasn’t trying to kill her, but I was terrified that I had done just that.

After a moment of shock, I ran down the porch stairs and around to the side where Birdie fell. She was flapping around on the ground, screaming in pain. I tried to pick her up, and she pecked at me.

By this time, I was terrified that I’d mortally wounded her, and I began to cry. I knew that she had done nothing to me other than providing comfort and companionship, and instead of enjoying and appreciating that – instead of being thankful for that -- I caused her horrible pain and suffering and she might even die.

I gently picked her up and saw that there was an indentation in her left wing. She was terrified and uncontrollable, not knowing what was happening to her.

I ran into the house -- upstairs to my sister’s room -- and looked through her multitude of footwear boxes. A nice, sturdy boot box looked like just what I needed. I dumped her boots out of the box, ran to the bed in my room, dumped my pillow out of its pillow case and lined the boot box with that.

I ran downstairs and struggled to scoop up Birdie as she flailed about and squawked. Finally catching her, I placed Birdie in the box and she calmed down some after a few moments. She was weakly trying to get her wings to work, but the one with the indent wouldn’t move properly.

I was so afraid. Birdie had befriended me when others forgot about me. She had become my little buddy in my time of need. And look what I gave her in return for her caring friendship.

I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t tell my mom about the horrible thing I had done. Actually, I didn’t want to tell anyone at all what I had done. I felt so ashamed.

I had no idea what to do for a wounded bird, but I couldn’t face telling other people about it, so I placed her and the box under the porch.

I filled one of my grandmother’s empty medicine bottles (she had lots, for some reason) with birdseed; then I poured some water into one of her little sauce bowls. I placed those right inside the box, so Birdie could reach them whenever she wanted.

I checked on her each day for two days, and though I could see that she was eating and drinking a little, she didn’t seem to be getting better. I had nightmares that I would go out to check on Birdie under the porch, and she would be dead and stiff – her lifeless eyes open -- staring at me in accusation.

Guilt weighed heavily on my mind. I stopped checking on Birdie after that. I was so fearful that I would look under the porch to find that my nightmares had come true. I couldn’t bear that, so I left her alone.

********

Here is what I didn’t know:

An eight-year-old little boy named Danny, who lived down the street, was playing hide-and-seek with friends. In his quest to elude detection, he decided to hide under my porch. Of course, he found Birdie there. Excited and concerned, the boy bolted from cover and ran home with his find. He showed it to his mom and said, “Mom, can’t you fix it?”

His mom looked at the bird in the box and said, “Oh honey, it’s hurt. I don’t know what to do for it.”

The boy saw the troubled look on his mom’s face and said, “But you have to. It looks like it’s dying!” Danny began to cry as he tried to comfort the bird by stroking its head with his finger, but it pecked weakly at him.

His mom stood quietly thinking for a few moments, then said, “Let’s take it to Nikko’s vet. We’ll see what he can do.” Nikko was their beloved family dog.

“Yeah, he can fix it,” Danny said, as a hopeful smile lit up his face. They placed bird and box in Nikko’s carrier, got into their car and took Birdie to the vet. Danny talked to the bird in comforting tones during the entire drive.

When Danny and his mom arrived at the veterinarian’s office, they were seen immediately. The vet checked the bird and said, “Oh, I don’t know, Danny. You might have to just let her pass. I can help her do that.”

“NO,” Danny shouted – tears immediately welling in his eyes. “You can help her live. I know you can.” The mom hugged her crying son and looked at the vet with pleading eyes.

Well… tell you what I’ll do. I’ll keep her here for a while and do what I can,” the vet said. “But don’t get your hopes up.”

Danny visited Birdie every day after school. He told her all that happened in his classes and in the world outside. Her wing was held immobile for a while, but she seemed to be getting better. She let Danny reach in and pet her head after a time. He always told her she would be fine before he left.

Eventually, she was well enough for Danny to take her home in a special cage. He had saved up allowance money to help his mom buy the cage, but she wouldn’t take it; the vet didn’t accept any payment for Birdie’s care. He said he was amazed watching her recovery and learned some things himself.

They cared for Birdie until she was healthy and ready to fly again. Danny took her out on his porch, placing her on the railing each day and walked a short distance away, encouraging her to fly to him.

Initially, she just flapped her wings, making no real effort to leave her perch, but after about a week, she built up the courage to actually fly to Danny. She perched on his shoulder and held her head against his neck. Danny was elated – not only because she flew – but because he considered her gesture a bird hug.

Danny gradually ran further and further away from the porch to get Birdie to fly over distances. When she started flying with him as he ran – even passing him to sweep up into the sky ahead -- he knew it was time to let her go. His mom had told him many times that he would have to let her go back to her life when the time came.

One morning, they drove Birdie out into the nearby forest and set her free. She was reluctant. She flew off, then came back several times, but eventually she took wing and left them. Danny cried a bit while watching her sail off into the world, but he also felt a warm happiness deep in his heart because of what he’d done to help her.

********

About a year after I shot her, Birdie came back – I know it was her -- landing on a tree branch close to my house, in the backyard. She wasn’t alone, though. She had a mate and three dovelings with her. (Sorry, I don’t know what baby doves are called.) I was overjoyed seeing her. I called to her. “Birdie?” I said. “Birdie!” I shouted.

She turned her head to the side (to get a better view of me, I guess), then she sounded her signature call of “whoo-oo-ooo." But she made no move to come to me. After a few moments, she flapped her wings twice. There was a pause, and then she and her family all took off at once like they had some type of “time to go” signal between them.

I figured she had come back to let me know that I had provided the care she needed and to show me her new little family.

I was so wrong. And she never came back.

A few years later, I met Danny – Danny Ruggles – at the neighborhood bar. We shot some pool together and had a couple of beers before we were both ready to leave. I had walked there. It was only a few blocks from the house where I’d always lived. My grandparents had passed on, so I owned the house now.

Anyway, Danny asked me if I wanted a ride home and I said, “sure.” As we pulled into my driveway, Danny seemed to become excited. He asked, “This is your house?” “Yeah, of course, it is. Why would I have you take me to somebody else’s house?”

With a broad grin on his face, he told me his entire story about the purple bird he’d found while playing under my house. He told me all about how he’d taken care of her, helped her recover from her injuries and nursed her back into the world.

As you can probably imagine, I was shocked into silence after he finished the story. I gave him a fake smile and told him that he had done a wonderful, caring thing. Then I hurriedly got out of his car and went inside.

How could I have been so wrong? How could I have given myself credit for taking care of poor Birdie after I purposely injured her and then was too cowardly to get help for her, hiding her under the porch like a shameful secret, offering her virtually no assistance and leaving her to die? The only thing she had ever done to me was provide companionship and a little comfort in my time of need.

What an ass I had been! What hubris – taking credit for something I had never even come close to doing – giving myself an egotistical pat on the back for being a weasely jackass who betrayed the trust she had given me. I felt like a fool. I started to examine myself, marveling at my own stupidity and arrogance.

Birdie didn’t come back to let me know I had taken care of her. She came back to show me she had survived and thrived, despite my abuse.

It’s amazing how such a small thing -- a bird that befriended me and that I treated so callously -- could cause me to examine some of the unpleasant places in the dark core of myself that I like to ignore. I had painted over those spaces in my mind with pretty justifications as camouflage – hiding, in a sense, from myself.

Self-examination can be brutal. I looked at my life and my relationships with others. As I looked more closely, I saw a selfish, shallow person who didn’t really care much about anyone or anything that did not serve his whims and desires and needs. I saw a self-serving person inclined to abrupt disregard for everything and everyone as soon as something else came along that looked shiny enough to grab his attention.

I saw someone who treated the world with careless indifference and liked it that way because it allowed him to be happy, without conscience.

I saw people I’d treated just as I had treated Birdie.

I didn’t like what I saw in there. That couldn’t be me, I thought. I’m a good person -- I know I am.

Well, I covered that darkness right back up again. This time, I used pretty justification wallpaper and extra-strong glue so that the crud deep down could never again be exposed.

Then I headed for bed with a smile on my face, feeling great and glorious and good once again because no one would ever know the nasties within and I would never have to look at them myself.

It was just a stupid bird, after all. No big deal. I really didn’t care all that much. I just didn’t want to feel guilty, and the gremlins of guilt would never touch me again.

I am a good person.

I am.

A good.

Person.