That Quail, Robert

by Margaret Stanger

  What an example of kindness and affection Robert enjoyed! This came not only from the hundreds who came to see her but, more importantly, from the day-after-day, month-after-month and year-after-year atmosphere around her. Even when there were guests in the Kienzle home for any length of time, the pattern was not interrupted. Letters received from Tommy’s sister, Charlotte, showed as much real interest in news of Robert as in news about members of the family.

  If it had been possible to spoil Robert, it would have been accomplished during the two months’ visit of Don and his German bride. The impression Monika had made on Tommy and Mildred during the German visit proved well founded indeed. The tall, gentle blonde girl was a perfect mate for Don. Both share a lifelong sensitive love of animals and all wildlife, so it is small wonder that their love for Robert was immediately reciprocated. I can picture Monika now, knitting in the big chair, with needles flying and Robert happily ensconced on top of her head. (They both planned on a pet as well as children when they were settled, and it was no surprise when their letters from Australia were full of the doings of Murzel, the kitten. Now Murzel shares their love with Trevor, a baby boy.)

  Now the Kienzles were looking forward with intense pleasure to a visit from their elder son, Tom. He and his family had often been there, of course, but on those visits the two adorable grandchildren precluded concentration on any one person. How the grandparents enjoyed those times; the children were changing rapidly, becoming charming companions as they grew. The forthcoming visit was to be different. Tom was completing his Ph.D. thesis and needed a few days of quiet and uninterrupted concentration, conditions never found in a household including two lively small children, a dog and a cat. This was to be the first time that the Kienzles had Tom all to themselves since the advent of his younger brother when he was three years old. The study in the guest wing was ready, menus built around Tom’s favorite food were planned, and he came.

  The two sons are far from being duplicates. Tom, while kindness itself, felt much less emotional involvement than Don did in pets. His children have pets, and they are beautifully cared for and loved. Both he and Nancy admire Robert and appreciate her uniqueness and are good to her. Since Robert always stayed safely under the big bed while the children were there, she was not so much in evidence as at other times. While Tom was there by himself, life for Robert was more normal. She soon learned, after having been gently removed from the table covered with graphs and charts, that the study was off limits for her. She seemed to accept her new status as just another member of the family, and not the most important one; but she was to prove beyond shadow of doubt that this was not entirely to her liking and that she missed the accustomed and constant attention. But her opportunity came.

  The last dinner before Tom’s departure was ready. How the Kienzles had enjoyed mealtimes. Tom, temporarily released from his labors, was relaxed and ready for conversation. And such conversation! It was on a completely adult level, and rather high-keyed discussions often developed. Robert was out of it, and she realized it. She had always accepted guests for dinner as the more the merrier. At a very lovely dinner party, for example, given in honor of my birthday, all the guests vied for her attention. But things had changed this time. Mildred and Tommy were subconsciously aware that she was very quiet, staying at her end of the table where her tiny dish of seeds was placed. Occasionally she would advance to the center of things but, receiving no encouragement, would retreat to her own place.

  Her manners at the table were exemplary, and since she was accustomed to being offered tidbits, she had never presumed to take anything from a general serving dish. But nothing was forthcoming this time. She walked to the center of the table, looked things over almost as though making a decision, then with wings slightly spread, hopped upon a dish of quivering mint jelly and padded around on it. All that was lacking was an accompaniment of the song “It’s nice to beat your feet on the Mississippi mud.” Tom, thinking of the jelly, said very, very firmly, “Oh Robert!” Mildred, thinking of those sticky feet, picked her up and retreated to the kitchen with her. There her feet were washed and dried, with Mildred talking to her as a mother might to a child who “didn’t mean to do it.” The jelly was replaced, Robert was left on the kitchen counter with a bit of lettuce, and the meal resumed. In a few minutes she was back at her own place on the table, more complacent than chastened. Her next attempt to attract attention was more dramatic and also more disastrous. Inch by inch she approached the arena, and before anyone could stop her, she was into the dish of chopped broccoli and butter sauce, where in less time than it takes to tell it she went into her dirt-bath routine, throwing broccoli and butter sauce all over everything and everybody. This time she was not picked up, she was grabbed before she could shake herself, and the clean-up began. She had done a very thorough job, liberally sprinkling table, people, place mats and even the buffet with gobs of broccoli and butter sauce. And as for Robert—she was a mess. Her breast feathers were soaked; the contents of the dish were on her back, her head and even under her wings. She came as close to having a water bath as she ever had, and she spent literally hours afterward cleaning each feather. She worked at it until she was put to bed—in disgrace, for the first time in her life. I am sure the episode did nothing to endear her to Tom.

  The whole story was written to Don and Monika, and their comment was characteristic: “What a shame that that entertainment was wasted on Tom. How we wish we had been there.”

  Coincidence? Maybe. But the fact remains that she had never done such a thing before and that she never did such a thing afterward. Tom left, all was forgiven and, as far as Robert was concerned, forgotten.

  How we have changed in these United States in our attitude toward pets. The millions of dollars spent each year on dog and cat food attest to this emphatically. While I have never seen statistics showing figures broken down according to geographical sections, I am willing to wager that the bulk of such spending is in the East and the far West. The Midwest seems slower to change. Perhaps this is because that area is largely agricultural. I spent many of my childhood years there. Lots of my friends had dogs, and they were just dogs. Table scraps sustained them, and at that time any Midwestern veterinarian would have been insulted had an ailing cat been brought to him. His services were exclusively for cattle and horses. Now we see many veterinarians educated to deal exclusively with small animals. In my childhood, and I am sure it is true today, every farm had a farm dog and a barn full of cats. But they were outdoors dogs and strictly barn cats. Beyond having a large pan of milk poured out for them after milking, the cats fended for themselves. As for having a pet sleep at the foot of a child’s bed—this was foreign to all local thinking.

  Two charming women who were childhood friends of mine in Iowa bought a home here on Cape Cod not too long ago. I am sure that they were perplexed, to put it mildly, at my feeling of responsibility for Robert during her stay with me. They accepted it graciously, but with little understanding. As they made friends here, and they made many, they began to realize that many of these friends were devoted to pets, and that in some cases they were slaves to their pets. These two friends are both intelligent and broadminded people, and told me one day that they had talked it over and decided that they would just have to reorganize their thinking on the subject of pets. They have succeeded pretty well.

  14

  AN ANXIOUS WEEK

  THE FIRST two and a half years of Robert’s life had been blessed with good health. To be sure, she had had her share of small accidents, which caused her a day or two of discomfort, but she had not been seriously ill. She had even had minor surgery, which had not bothered her at all, when a small, spur-like growth appeared at the corner of her beak which seemed to be very annoying. She worked at it herself, scratching it hard. After examining it closely, Tommy decided it had better be removed. He felt sure it could be done without any anesthetic, and he was right. Mildred held her in her hands, rubbing the side of her face and head with on
e thumb. Robert’s head drooped over Mildred’s fingers, her eyes were closed, and she was certainly relaxed. Tommy laid the edge of the scissors against the spur, and it did not disturb her at all. Then he quickly snipped it off, and she seemed not to have felt it. She was greatly relieved and the scratching stopped.

  None of those little upsets had been serious, but on the first of April, 1965, she was sick, very sick. The first day we were aware that she was not herself, she was very quiet, not active at all, and ate very little. It was too early in the season for molting to start, but of course we considered the possibility of the beginning of another ovulation. The next day Mildred watched her as she rather hesitantly approached her seed tray. Much alarmed, Mildred called Tommy:

  “Tommy, I don’t think she can see!”

  They picked her up and, taking her into a good light, realized that this was indeed true. Her eyes did not look right. All that morning she had been shaking her head frequently, often uttering a little cry as she did so. Both eyes were filled with a clear, gelatinous fluid, which formed rapidly and accounted for the constant shaking. In fact, the next time she shook, they could see the tiny droplets fly. She could not even see a good-sized piece of lettuce held before her.

  I saw her that night and it was heart-breaking. She knew her way around the house and was on the floor when I entered the room. But there was no rushing to me with cries of greeting. She did come toward me when she heard my voice, but it was all too evident that something was very wrong. I watched her go to the hearth by the fireplace where a glass of water was always kept for her. She walked up to it, going very slowly, and found the glass. On the first attempt to get a drink, her beak hit the near edge of the glass. She tried again with no luck. Finally she walked slowly along beside the glass till it was against her wing. Then, turning her head at an angle, she seemed to see a little from the side of her eye, and in that awkward position managed to quench her thirst. I left for home. I could not endure watching her. My eyes filled too, but with tears.

  I am just no good where a sick animal is concerned. I can pitch in and do anything necessary for a sick person, but I know what I am doing—and, what is more important, the person knows too. But a sick or suffering animal is so helpless, and I am so frustrated by my own helplessness, that my cowardly inclination is to get as far away from it as I can. I am rather ashamed of this weakness, but that is the way it is. The disgraceful truth is that I did not see Robert again for six days. It was all I could do to telephone, I was so fearful of what the news might be.

  I knew that Tommy was worried about her, though he was a pillar of strength. At one time he voiced the fear that it might be the delayed result of one of the times she hit the top of her head so hard. He hoped that it had not caused a blood clot, or something of the sort, back of the optic nerve. There was certainly no comfort in that idea.

  I telephoned my friend Fran Leach, who is a wizard with sick canaries and other birds, but she could tell me nothing except to say that she would try to see if she could find out anything about eyes in general. She did have a suggestion, and when the Kienzles went to see her she urged strongly that they give her vitamins. They had already thought of that and had emptied a little capsule which contained multi-vitamins, and had tried to give Robert some, but she objected with what strength she had. Mildred tasted the powder and said it was horrible. But Fran had a special vitamin in powder form which she gives birds, tiny monkeys and other small animals in the spring. To a person, this was much more palatable, having a distinctly nutty flavor. The powder adhered to freshly cooked grains of wild rice, and in this way they were able to get it into her.

  Feeding her was a major problem. A bird eats a great deal in comparison with its body weight, and they knew they had to keep her strength up. She could not manage her wild-bird seed because she was always selective, and ate only certain of the seeds. Mildred tried filling a tiny glass with the seeds, and getting her beak into it. But this meant that she came up with a mouthful, which is not the way a bird eats. She opened her mouth, trying to get rid of it, and that did not work. She had always had her wild rice from the palm of someone’s hand, and had often had it after she was in her bed and after the light was out. I doubt if any half-hour went by during those days without Mildred’s getting a few grains into her. This was a lifesaver in the truest sense of the term, it also ensured her getting the vitamins every day in addition to the nourishment.

  News of the little bird’s illness spread fast. As is usual in cases of illness, friends hesitated to telephone the Kienzles, with the result that my telephone rang very frequently. The innate kindness of people is heartening. Walter Peers, who had built the patio for me when Robert was with me those three months, and who with his wife had moved into my house to take care of her when I had to be in New York for a week, called one evening to inquire about her. I had to say that there was not much that I could tell him in the way of encouragement, and I thanked him for calling. To that, he replied, “Well, we got to know Robert pretty well, and when you know her . . .” and his voice choked up.

  And so it went, long day after long day. Tommy was able to obtain some special eyedrops, which were put in two or three times a day. This remains the only thing done to her, or for her, to which she objected. How she hated those eyedrops. Perhaps they smarted, though Tommy did not think so. He did think that sunshine would be good for her, but the weather did not cooperate. We had the rainy and windy days which April so often brings, and outdoor exposure for Robert was out of the question.

  About the fourth day the sun did come out. Mildred carried Robert out to a sheltered part of the patio and, shielding her with her coat, let the sun shine on her back for a few minutes. The next day was even better, and Robert was put down in a sunny spot. Surprisingly, she took a dirt bath, a rather feeble one, but a dirt bath. It must have felt good to her, for she lay on her side against a little mound of dirt for several minutes. The bath did not help the top of her head, which needed cleaning badly. The topknot feathers were stiff and crusty from the droplets that had landed there when she shook them from her eyes. Washing it with water was out of the question, but petroleum jelly rubbed in helped temporarily.

  We knew some food was going through her, but we also knew that she was getting far from enough to maintain her very long. On the seventh morning she lay quietly, perhaps resignedly, in Mildred’s hand, but when the eyedrops were put in, she put up an amazingly strong objection, wriggled out of the hands, down onto the floor, and made a beeline for her feeding tray. Scarcely believing their own eyes, Mildred and Tommy watched her as she selected her favorite seeds, and heard her uttering her little contented chirps. She could see! Then she headed for the living room to a pan of growing chickweed which two of her admirers had found under a sheltered branch in their garden, but which till this time she had not been able to eat. She had tried, swallowing at random whatever she found—tiny twigs, bits of leaves and occasionally a bit of the green. Now she hopped up in the pan, and how she ate!

  Mildred called me immediately, and the world brightened. For several more days a slight amount of the fluid came in her eyes, but the drops were diminished to once a day, to Robert’s relief. For several days she tired easily, asked to be put to bed very early and spent a lot of time on the kitchen counter under her lamp, sleeping on her side. What had been the trouble? A cold? A virus infection? Bird pneumonia? Who knows. What had cured her? Eyedrops? Sunshine? Vitamins? Prayers? Who knows. What did it matter? She was well once more.

  We often hear it said that a bird eats its own weight in food every day. For the few days after the return of her sight, Robert must have done just that.

  It often takes an illness to make us appreciate health.

  A very considerate veterinarian once told a friend whose dog was sick that she must remember that animals do not worry, that they have no fear as to what may be ahead when they are sick and that they just take each day as it comes. This is doubtless true of birds as well as animals, and it
is a comforting thought. Apparently human beings are the only creatures cursed, with the ability to worry, and we certainly worried. By the same token, maybe we are the only ones blessed with the capacity for appreciation, and we—all of us who were so deeply concerned—appreciated Robert’s return to health and happiness.

  15

  THE LAST CHAPTER

  ROBERT approached her fourth autumn season in good spirits. Once again the patio was delightful with fallen leaves under which she knew there were good bugs and spiders. It meant a great deal to me to have her well because she was soon to spend another ten days at my home while the Kienzles were going to Lexington to help in welcoming a new baby in their son Tom’s family. Since Robert was as much at home in my house as in her own, I did not give the adjustment a thought this time. Perhaps I took too much for granted. I believe Robert knew that I would bow to her every whim.

  The very first night, when she signified that she was ready to be put to bed, she insisted on a change of routine. Everything was just as it had always been on other visits, but something was not to her liking. I held her a few minutes, talked to her and then put her up on her shelf on her own ball of yarn. I closed the door and settled down to doing the many things I had not done during the day. Almost immediately I heard her fly down, and knew she was standing at the bedroom door trying to get out. Of course I went in to her, and we tried again. After four futile attempts to get her to settle in for the night, I was at my wits’ end, when suddenly I thought of the little Swiss music box. Once more I put her on her shelf, but this time I brought the music box in with me and sat on the bed and wound it up. It plays two minutes at a winding, and during that time there was not a sound from Robert. But as soon as it ran down, little interrogatory chirps came from the shelf. I wound it again. Again silence until it had run down. After the third playing—silence. I wound it once more, muffled it with a blanket at the foot of the bed and tiptoed out. There was not a sound until nine o’clock the next morning. The whole performance was repeated that night, and I gave in. Toward the end of her visit I tried it again without the music box, but had to go back to it. When she returned home, I told the Kienzles about it, and the first night they tried their music box, which is a duplicate of mine. Robert objected very vocally, and did not want it. It really seemed that she had taken advantage of me, but I was more than willing.