The Gift

      

            It was the mid 1950s and I had a birthday coming up. Usually I received board games or puzzles or books, but this year the twelfth of November was on a Saturday, and Mommy woke me early.
            “Get up and get dressed, Connie. We’re going to Milford to do some shopping.”
            Trips in our pale blue Ford Coupe were rare occasions and had to be important. I suspected a birthday present was in the works and slipped into some school clothes faster than on any school day. Milford was five times as far away as Harrington, our closest town, and had lots more places to shop, so my imagination and anticipation soared. Mommy slid in behind the wheel ignoring my thousand questions.
            At the main traffic light in Milford we turned right and pulled into a curbside parking spot in front of an unfamiliar store, a pet store. I conjured up a mental image of kittens and puppies of all colors and sizes licking, climbing and jumping on me standing at the center of their attention. Mommy tapped on my window and beckoned me to come on, putting a temporary end to my fantasies.
            Inside the store Mommy walked right up to the counter like she was best friends with the sales clerk. I hung back, overwhelmed by all the activity around me. I saw not only cats and dogs, but parrots, guinea pigs, white mice, and other things I had no names for. An array of snakes and a beautiful aquarium with the most colorful fish in the world wreaked havoc with my imagination.
            Mommy walked toward me carrying…a shoebox with holes in it?
            “Don’t worry. You’ll like it,” she said with a smile as she handed it to me. I held it out in front of me as she opened the door to go outside.
            She followed me to the car, opened my door, and told me to wait and not to open the box which was now resting on my knees. I could feel something moving around in there, but decided I should do as she said. It could be anything, even a snake, but I couldn’t imagine my mom getting me a snake.
            Soon she was back outside carrying a cage and a couple more bags. The secret was out; and I had a good idea about what was in the box. It took all my self-control not to pop up that lid. The ride home was interminable, and the occupant of the box was quiet as the proverbial mouse.

           Finally back home, I helped carry in the packages and set up the stand with the birdcage and all its accessories. I don’t remember how I decided on Petie’s name, it just came to me natural-like. When Mommy said I could open the box, she showed me how to extend my index finger in front of Petie’s feet, and he hopped right on. We were buddies from the start. I carried him up to his cage, guided my hand inside and he jumped onto one of the side wires. He hung there and looked at me for several minutes, sizing me up. I guess I passed the parakeet test because he quickly decided to ignore me and jumped into his water dish splashing most of the liquid onto the clean paper Mommy had just put in the bottom of his cage.

            In the months and years to come, Petie filled in for the siblings I never had. When I came home from school each day, he and I watched Bandstand together. I could tell he liked it as much as I did. He would sway from side to side and move his little head up and down keeping time to the music. It seemed no time before he was saying, “Pretty bird, pretty boy,” and giving me that sexy whistle boys covertly make to flatter pretty girls. He was a fast learner.
            At night I covered his cage with a soft, flowery towel so he would know it was bedtime. Once I peeked in and there he stood on his swing, eyes closed. Another time I looked and he was standing on one leg with the other tucked up under him. I thought he really must get exhausted having to stand up all the time. When the sun came up and light filtered through his cover, he woke me up by ringing his toy bell and giving me that sexy whistle. If I dawdled at removing the towel, his little head feathers would rise up showing his displeasure with my lazy attitude. He had his own special morning treat, then, he bathed in his water bowl and preened in front of his mirror while I had my breakfast.
            I never tired of Petie’s entertaining antics and often opened his cage door so he could fly around inside the house. He would light on the curtain rods and, like royalty, survey his domain. If I tapped my shoulder, he would land there and nibble on my ear, making funny little clicking noises deep down in his throat.
            I’ll always remember those happy years growing up with Petie, but life continues on for little girls. I graduated high school and went away to college, and in my self-centered teenage world I did not give much thought to the effect my absence would have on Petie. When it was time to come home for Thanksgiving break, Mommy had bad news. Petie’s appetite had dwindled to the vanishing point during the months I was gone and he had died a couple days before. She waited until I got home to tell me.
            I sobbed and sobbed and felt Petie’s loss as much as if he had been my real-life brother. Together, Mommy and I dug a small hole in our backyard beside a tall pine tree. I lay Petie inside his flowered towel and wrapped him up with his mirror and bell and a special treat just in case he got hungry.
            Thanksgiving was a sad holiday at our home that year, but in time the sad memories faded, and I remembered all the joy Petie had brought into my life, always singing when I came in the door from school, waiting for me to turn on Bandstand.

Petie

Visiting the Horses

A couple of weekends ago my daughter came for a surprise visit, and we decided to drive to Mill Creek Horse Farm and see the rescued and retired horses. It is a short drive and after exiting the Interstate and 441 in Alachua, it turns scenic.

My daughter volunteered at the farm a few times when she was younger and always enjoyed interacting with the various breeds in their senior years though some were not in very good health. On the Farm’s website, carrots were advertised as the entry fee, and we had picked up a huge bagful at Publix, large and small ones.

 We were surprised when we arrived at the farm to see a huge crowd of single people and families who had come to spend their Saturday petting, talking to, and feeding elderly horses. Cars were parked all along the entrance driveway and the parking lot overflowed with family vehicles spilling out laughing and rambunctious little ones. There was a festival atmosphere.

 On our way in we had noticed three forlorn-looking horses standing at the rails of a fenced paddock, one with a fitted mask over its eyes, so we made it our priority to walk back to see them as soon as we had parked, thinking they had very few visitors. They were gentle and seemed to know we had carrots although their teeth allowed them to eat only the baby ones. The plaque on their fence told us they had been there a long time. We lingered awhile petting and talking to them then moved on into the farm and the crowds.

 There was a sort of entry point where you could make a donation if you wanted to, buy t-shirts and calendars advertising the farm and its horses, or pick up some carrots or sliced apples if you forgot to bring some. We followed the sandy path appropriately called the “Mane Concourse” that led between the many different fenced pastures. Plaques adorned the board fencing with information about all the horses in that particular field. Each one had its own story.

Rainy was the first elder we met. She was a white quarter-horse mare that was found abandoned and luckily rescued by police. After two months of rehab on a ranch in South Florida, she came to Mill Creek to live out her final years, never to be worked or ridden again. She was attentive and loved carrots. Her information told us she had an old injury to one of her hind legs.

 We meandered on, pausing to pet, talk, and feed any horses waiting patiently at their fence line. The pastures were still a lovely green. We noticed covered hay feeders and water containers scattered about. Motorized carts passed us carrying volunteers going or coming from whatever work they were assigned for the day.

Even though the parking area was filled with vehicles, the sanctuary’s 335 acres quickly thinned out the crowd of visitors, and with 140 horses in residence, everyone leisurely roamed around and interacted with the animals. We crisscrossed the sandy lane from fence line to fence line, visiting and feeding the eager participants, occasionally chatting with the other animal lovers.

We stopped to read about Ginny, a 14-year old mare, who had been a dressage horse. She was following us along the fence enthusiastically, switching her tail, nodding her head across the top board, almost speaking to say she wanted a carrot. She seemed a little feisty so my daughter carefully gave her the longest carrots, which she ate quickly. As we turned to go on, Ginny suddenly bumped against Erica’s arm, maybe thinking her red shirt was another carrot. Erica got this “what happened” look on her face and pushed up her sleeve to see blood pouring from a bite shaped just like Ginny’s mouth.

It was a shock at first because all the other horses were so gentle, eating the baby carrots from the palm of her hand. Luckily I had a pack of tissues and some Hand Sanitizer. Erica poured that over the bite to some wincing and held the tissues tightly to stop the bleeding.

A couple other visitors looked in disbelief and offered help. One directed us toward a barn and said someone there would give us a Band-Aid, which unfortunately I did not have. We told that person that Ginny was aggressive and should be moved to an inaccessible pasture until she learned better manners, and she agreed that she would have someone do that. We felt the very small children would be at risk of injury, maybe even some of the big children like us.

 So that sort of put a damper on our day at the horse retirement farm, and after getting the Band-Aid, we made our way back to the car. Erica insisted she felt fine and we continued on to High Springs for a late lunch and a visit to some of the many craft and antique shops on Main Street. When she returned home and took off the Band-Aid, it was still bleeding so she poured some peroxide over it and re-bandaged it. It still hasn’t completely healed as of last night, but it is improving.

 The lesson we learned was that just because an animal is old, it remains an animal and cannot be trusted to do what you think it should do. From now on, we’ll keep this in mind and act accordingly.