That was the last time I ever saw Charger. My medevac chopper was shot down about two months later. I was evacuated, and regained consciousness in a hospital in Japan. I tried to find out about Charger, but only heard a vague rumor that he had been taken back to the States. I hoped it was true.
I still remember him now, more than thirty years later. He lives on in my heart. And whenever I think back to that rainy and miserable night in Vietnam when our paths first crossed, it seems impossible to know just who rescued whom.
Ron St. James
Mr. Reed
People often ask me why I’ve devoted half of my fifty-eight years to working with pet birds. I usually answer by recounting the story of Mr. Reed.
We first met in the early 1980s. Back then Mr. Reed was like many of the elderly people I encountered in nursing homes and senior citizen residences near the pet store I run. The Great Depression had stripped Mr. Reed early in life not only of his money and pride but also of his ability to trust in mankind. As far as I knew, he had never married, he had no children, and after four decades of isolation in different institutions, he was withdrawn and uncommunicative.
Now in his eighties, Mr. Reed hid his loneliness behind thick black-rimmed glasses that dwarfed his weathered blue eyes. He shuffled about inside the quiet nursing home, unwilling to smile or converse with anyone. Mr. Reed’s only companions, it seemed to me, were whatever memories he kept to himself.
Yet, despite his aloofness, Mr. Reed was always quite interested in the activities going on in the nursing home lobby. On this particular day I arrived with a pair of gregarious green lovebirds. They were about five inches long, chunky in stature, with blue rumps and bright peach-colored foreheads.
I was scheduled to deliver the two lovebirds for placement inside this nursing home’s lobby, where I hoped they would enliven the sterile surroundings. Although the nursing home’s staff was officially responsible for the care of the animals, lonesome patients looking for companionship often assumed the feeding and other responsibilities themselves. Birds made particularly suitable pets in a location like this because they stayed caged, were often chatty and could eat almost any type of people food without fear of upset tummies. Looking after the birds often instilled a sense of purpose in the patients’ otherwise monotonous lives. As for the birds, they were blessed with attentive care from people who had few other obligations.
That fall day I situated the pair of lovebirds in a semicircular silver cage, which I hung against a wall next to a fading picture of the home’s rather stern-looking founder. Underneath the cage, I placed a small book about their care. The barren, medicinal-smelling lobby quickly warmed with the delightful sound of their chirping and wing-flapping.
Seniors passed by with their walkers and canes, peering at the creatures. Although a few residents seemed wary, most could barely conceal their curiosity, pointing wrinkled fingers at the cage and grinning when the birds jumped about.
Mr. Reed, meanwhile, circled the room nervously, keeping to himself and trying to conceal his interest in the excited lovebirds. Finally, after the room cleared out for lunch, he stopped directly beside their cage. Glancing to see who was watching, he picked up the bird book, eased into a nearby chair and began reading. For hours he remained by the birds’ side, studiously examining the guide.
When my day’s visit ended, I approached him cautiously. “Would you like to help take care of these birds for a few days?” I asked. He looked up, his dulled eyes flickering behind his glasses. Then he nodded, a tiny tentative smile creeping onto his lips.
As the weeks progressed, I learned from the nursing home staff that Mr. Reed had gradually assumed all the care and feeding of the lovebirds. One morning I received a call from the home saying Mr. Reed felt the birds were ready to mate. I drove over to check, and indeed, Mr. Reed’s diagnosis was correct—it seems he’d learned a great deal from studying the little book I’d left behind. Together, Mr. Reed and I offered the lovebirds a small wooden box, which they gladly accepted and began filling with shredded newspaper and other materials to create a nest. Throughout the afternoon, as Mr. Reed watched protectively, the carefree birds sang love songs and bustled about constructing a fine crib for their eggs.
A few days later I stopped by to appraise the lovebirds’ progress and noticed a very odd white and brown material lining the nest. “What a strange-looking nest, Mr. Reed,” I noted. “Do you mind my asking what’s in there?”
“Toast,” he replied in a proud voice. “Every morning I save a piece of my breakfast toast for the birds. They seem to like it.”
I nodded and marveled at the profound change in this man. Not long ago he had been tired and reclusive; now he interacted regularly with the staff while caring for these lovebirds with the devotion of a conscientious innkeeper. Watching them eat and nest, he would chuckle as they bobbed their heads about, dancing as if they knew it brought him pleasure. After years of speaking only when spoken to, Mr. Reed would invite other residents to witness the lovebirds’ antics.
These creatures, I realized, had become much more than transient boarders passing through Mr. Reed’s life. If their relationship had begun as tenant and landlord, the birds and Mr. Reed were now each other’s only family. Through some mutual agreement struck gradually over mornings of shared breakfast and evenings of simple conversation, the birds had decided to keep Mr. Reed, and he in turn agreed to spend his remaining years with them. It seemed a fair bargain.
Soon the lovebirds produced two charming babies whom we moved into Mr. Reed’s room, along with their mother and father. The babies also attached themselves to Mr. Reed, and we trimmed their wing feathers so they could venture outside their cage to interact with him.
Several times I saw him gently placing one of the baby birds in the trembling hands of other senior citizens, assuring them that the birds would cause no harm. Every Sunday there was at least one resident whose family would fail to show up for a visit as promised. Mr. Reed always made certain the lovebirds spent extra time cuddling in the arms of that senior. In many ways Mr. Reed became the center of social activity at the home.
One winter evening, after a pleasant dinner with his chattering charges, Mr. Reed went to bed, as usual, at nine o’clock. The next morning, when the lovebirds cried for his attention, he did not wake up, for sometime in the predawn hours, Mr. Reed had died peacefully in his sleep.
To this day I keep a picture of Mr. Reed in my store. In the photo, the little lovebirds are cuddling beneath the crisp collar of the old man’s shirt, their green heads peeking out to rest on his fuzzy black cardigan. But it is his face that my eye always returns to. It is alight with affection and love—the face of a man surrounded by his family.
Ruth Hanessian with Wendy Bounds
Excerpted from Birds on the Couch
A Moggy for Michael
By associating with the cat, one only risks becoming richer.
Colette
One summer evening, about eight o’clock, the phone rang. “Sherlock Bones, here,” I said.
“Are you the man that looks for lost cats?” a child’s voice asked.
“That’s right,” I replied. “What can I do for you?”
“I want you to help me find Sam. He’s gray with black stripes. My mom gave him to me, but he’s been gone four days.”
“I see. Could I talk to your mom for a minute?” Whenever kids call me, I make sure to talk to their parents and let them know what’s going on. In a minute, a man came to the phone.
“I’m Mike’s father,” he said. “My wife has passed away. We already put an ad in the paper. I told Mike we couldn’t afford anything else. That kid’s pestering the daylights out of me over that cat.”
“Well, kids get attached to their pets,” I said. “Especially since his mom gave him Sam, he’s probably—”
“That’s just it,” he replied. “When she died, he was a regular little soldier—no crying, nothing. I was real proud of him. It’s been almost six month
s now, and he’s been doing fine—until this business with the cat. Look, I gotta go to work.”
Mike got back on the phone. I asked him where he lived. “Why don’t I stop by and we can talk some more about Sam?”
“Okay,” he said eagerly. “And about what my dad said . . . well, I’ve got some money saved up, almost twelve dollars. Is that enough?”
In my career people have offered me hundreds and even thousands of dollars to find their missing pets, but no one had ever promised me everything he had. I could see this was a case I was going to have to take.
Mike answered the door. He was a small, dark-haired kid, maybe ten years old, with pale skin and big brown eyes. With his mother recently dead, and his father working at two jobs, Mike was on his own most of the time. No wonder the kid was so anxious to get his cat back.
Mike told me Sam hadn’t been wearing a collar, but he did have a distinguishing feature—an egg-shaped white spot on his chest.
“That’s what we’ll put on the poster,” I said and explained about putting up posters and checking the animal shelters. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything,” I said, walking to the door.
He looked so forlorn I said, “Hey, Mike, tell you what.
You can be my assistant, and I’ll give you a reduced rate.”
We spent the day working together.
The next day I was putting up a poster in the window of a supermarket when I noticed it had an old-fashioned meat counter—the kind with a butcher. When I was a kid, our butcher knew the name of every pet in our neighborhood.
“Excuse me,” I said, “have you heard of anyone finding a cat recently? Gray with black stripes, white spot on its chest?”
“Have you talked to the cat lady?” the butcher asked me. “She comes in once a week and loads up on fish scraps and bones for her cats. She must have a houseful.”
That afternoon, I went to the cat lady’s house and rang the doorbell. The door opened a crack, and a voice called out in a strong English accent, “Yes, ducks, what is it?”
I handed her one of my cards, and said, “I help people find missing pets.”
“Do ya, now?” she said amiably and opened the door. “Mind me moggies,” she warned.
Once inside, I saw them: on the stairs, on the table, on the floor, on the chairs, scampering out of my way, crouching watchfully—there were cats everywhere.
She led me into the kitchen. “Have a seat, luv,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Bentwhistle, and I’m goin’ to make us a nice cuppa.”
“My,” I said, unable to avoid commenting on the obvious, “you certainly have a lot of cats.”
“You like me moggies, do ya?” she said with a bright smile.
“Moggies?”
“That’s right, moggies. Me mum come from Lancashire, and that’s what she called ’em, and so do I.”
She was a short, wide woman somewhere in her late sixties, I judged. Her gray hair was caught in the back with a couple of combs. Bright pink lipstick and rouge were enthusiastically if erratically applied.
She poured in the tea, and handed me mine. I took a sip and almost gagged.
“How do ya like it, then?” she asked.
“Oh,” I replied weakly. “It’s . . . um. . . tasty. Very unusual.”
“Nothin’ like it,” she agreed, taking a good swallow.
“Mrs. Bentwhistle, I’m looking for a cat—gray with black stripes.”
“Gaw!” she exclaimed, “I got millions of ’em. Why don’t ya have yourself a look? It’s almost feedin’ time.” She lifted the lid of an enormous pot and a terrible aroma escaped.
“Come on, grub’s up,” she yelled.
Suddenly the place was alive with furry bodies. Within five minutes the food was gone and so were the cats.
“There,” she said with satisfaction. “Did ya find the one ya were lookin’ for, then?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t,” I said. I explained about Mike and his cat. “He was very brave,” I said. “Too brave.”
“Oh, it’s a crying shame,” Mrs. Bentwhistle said sympathetically. “Here, why don’t ya come back tomorrow and have another look? I get new ones every day.”
The next day, over tea, Mrs. Bentwhistle told me that she and her husband had come to this country toward the end of World War II from their home in bombed-out East London.
“We had a good life here, Ernie and me. He’s been gone now almost ten years, rest his soul. Still, I’ve got me moggies to look after. But poor Mikey, all these moggies, and none of ’em Sam.”
With her permission I called in to the office for messages. Someone had seen the body of a cat in some bushes not far from Mike’s house. Dejected, I hung up and told Mrs. Bentwhistle I was afraid I had come to the end of my search.
I found the cat where I had been told to look, and its markings matched Sam’s exactly. I gingerly placed the body in a box, and with a heavy heart drove to Mike’s house.
Mike answered the door. “Hi,” he said eagerly. “Did you find Sam?”
“I have some bad news for you, Mike. Sam’s dead.”
The blood drained from his face.
Mike said nothing as we went about laying Sam to rest. I was worried and didn’t want to leave him by himself. Then I thought of something.
“Tell you what, Mike,” I said, “there’s a nice lady not far from here who’s got quite a few cats. How’s about we pay her a visit?”
“Okay,” he replied passively.
“Mrs. Bentwhistle,” I said quickly when she answered the door, “I brought Mike. We just buried Sam.”
“Come in,” she said. “You’re just in time for a lovely cuppa tea.”
As soon as Mike sat down, a small black cat jumped up on his lap, and he stroked it mechanically.
“Now then,” she said affably, passing out the tea and settling into her chair, “you lost your moggy, is that it?”
“That’s what Mrs. Bentwhistle calls cats, Mike,” I explained.
“Yes,” he said in a frighteningly matter-of-fact tone. “He was hit by a car.”
“Ain’t that a shame,” she sighed, sipping her tea and shaking her head. “And to think your mum gave Sam to you. Ya know, lad, it reminds me of me own mum.”
Mike looked up.
“Right before she died she gave me a set of dishes. Beautiful blue dishes, they was, me pride and joy, and I kept ’em in the front room where everyone could see ’em. Well, wouldn’t you know, one afternoon one of Hitler’s bleedin’ buzz bombs up and smashed half the house. But all I cared about was them dishes. I just felt so bad, because me mum give ’em to me.”
Mike stopped stroking the cat.
“Course it wasn’t me fault,” she continued, “but I still felt bad. It’s a bit like you and Sam, ain’t it? Now he’s been done in, but it weren’t your fault. Your mum knows that. Your mum still loves you, just like me mum loves me,” she said softly. “Well, that’s enough about that. Can’t hang your hat on the past, as ya might say.” She paused. “What about the moggy on your lap?How would you like to have him?”
Mike didn’t say anything.
“Come on now, lad,” she insisted. “Do you want him?”
Mike shook his head vehemently. “I don’t want him,” he cried. “I want Sam!”
And Mike bolted out of the room. I started after him, but Mrs. Bentwhistle stopped me.
“Leave him be,” she said. “He needs a good cry. Lads has got to be on their ownsome when they cry. I know a thing or two about lads as well as moggies.”
Soon Mrs. Bentwhistle got up and limped down the hall. Finally, they reappeared, Mike red-eyed, and Mrs. Bentwhistle with her arm around his shoulder.
Mike glanced at me and almost smiled. “Mrs.
Bentwhistle told me I can help her feed the cats whenever I want to.”
“I think that’s a fine idea,” I said. I wondered what it was Mrs. Bentwhistle had said to Mike; he no longer seemed to be carrying such a heavy burden.
“And
did you know Mrs. Bentwhistle had a little boy once?” Mike said. “He got killed in the war.”
“Hush now,” she interrupted. Then to me she said, “You can run along now. It’s time for Mikey and me to feed the moggies.”
I drove home with my head full of awe at the unseen forces that had used the tragedy of a boy’s dead pet to bring two lonely people together.
A few weeks later, I gave Mrs. Bentwhistle a call.
“How’s everything?” I asked.
“Couldn’t be better, luv,” she replied cheerily. “Mikey’s a lovely lad. He helps with the moggies and goin’ to the store. Don’t know what I did without him. Oh, and he took that little black moggy home with him.” She laughed. “He said it was just for a bit, but he don’t fool me. He’s a stubborn one, he is.”
“Mike stubborn?” I said.
“Oh yes!” she exclaimed. “He won’t drink me tea! Did ya ever hear the like? But don’t you worry, he’ll come ’round. We’ll make a proper lad of him yet, just you see.”
John Keane (a.k.a. Sherlock Bones)
Double Duty
Life + a cat . . . adds up to an incalculable sum.
Rainer Maria Rilke
As a member of a “dog family,” I had long been conditioned to believe that cats simply didn’t possess the ability or desire to be loving companions. This belief was so deeply ingrained that, while I didn’t actually dislike cats, I found them, for the most part, uninteresting.
Arriving home from work one afternoon, I discovered a cat at my doorstep. I ignored him, but apparently he was not offended, because he was there again the following day.
“I’ll pet you,” I told him, “but there’s no way you’re coming in.”
Then one night soon after, as the rain beat down and thunder clapped, I heard a faint meow. I couldn’t take it anymore; I became a cat owner.
My new roommate, now named Shotzy, quickly became more than just a stray cat to feed. I liked the way his soft purring greeted me every morning and the way he nudged his head against my leg when I came home each day. His playful antics made me laugh, and soon Shotzy seemed more like a longtime friend than a pet I hadn’t really wanted.