The Exquisite Loneliness
of a Popinjay

BRIIIRRRK! BRIIIRRRK! Every damned morning a mechanical sound punches through my dreaming jungle flight. Nearly knocks me off my perch. Why not a more musical sound, a dawn chorus? Even the squawk of my distant cousins, those parakeets who escaped their cages, would be better.

Soon, the featherless thing will rattle my cage and dump food into my tray. I scrape away the unappetising remnants from the day before. Dried husks of millet, budgerigar food, but there is little else on the menu. Fine for my small chirruping Australian relatives but not for this noble denizen of the jungle.

I would relish a morsel of ripe banana, or sweet red pepper, or something equally luscious. But days might pass before fleshy fruit or verdant vegetables appear. The flightless creature is not interested in these foodstuffs, preferring a vile preparation of what I fear comprises the flesh of a distant relative. Observing its consumption of these victuals is sickening, stuffing it into a fleshy flap on its face. How it manages without a beak is beyond me.

It approaches my cage from below like a snake. Instead of four legs it has two, like me, but no wings. Before long, it will have no legs as it evolves into a serpent, a horrifying prospect. Ugh.

It has two prehensile appendages, each with a remarkable capacity for grasping very small objects. I am fascinated by its deft movements when filling my food tray. Mesmerised by this sleight of hand, I fail to notice the door of my cage being opened and, before I realise it, quickly closed. One day I may not be so distracted and it becomes my means of escape.

In my confusion, I bob my head repeatedly and even execute a couple of dance moves. This pleases the creature which slaps the splayed ends of its appendages together and makes semi-intelligible noises sounding like ‘good girl’. I do not consider myself either good or a girl. The bobbing and dancing generate some very odd feelings in me which indicate an emotional response relating to amorous activity. However, isolated and alone, with no opportunity to express these urgings, I curtail this unwanted stimulation to restore my peace of mind.

The creature has difficulty maintaining an upright stance. It spends much of its time supine, like the sloths I recall from my youth, although I very much doubt its ability to hang from a tree. Its spongey feet have very rudimentary claws, unlike my efficient two-toes forward, two-toes backward arrangement, ideal for perching or hanging from a branch to reach a ripe fruit. I cannot imagine the creature doing either.

Sometimes the flightless thing talks to itself. I have heard it use words like ‘can’t come in’ and ‘sick as a parrot’. Why is he using me as an excuse? And, as for sick, I am healthy and vigorous. I resent the misrepresentation. It is not the only insult I have to bear.

I never express verbally what I am thinking. I doubt that the creature would understand my musings. I have heard it said that we are merely ‘parroting’ what we hear without understanding. We are not such fools. However, some are known to repeat coarse words to leering groups of the creatures, bringing adulation and the occasional treat, like performing animals. Do they not have any pride?

A perpetual midday light suffuses this place constantly although my circadian clock tells me when it is night-time. Then the featherless creature drapes a shroud over my cage to fool me into thinking it is night. I use this obscure solitary confinement to plot my escape but I usually fall asleep before I …