When I was growing up, I had a retarded parakeet.

Isn’t that a great opening line? It’s funny, it’s unexpected, it’s politically incorrect, and now you’re thinking how on earth can a parakeet be retarded? Well, she was. But as in all stories, this one has a beginning, and the retarded parakeet comes in somewhere in the middle.

When I was in second grade, living in New Orleans, my parents gave me a parakeet for Christmas. (And to be completely nitpicky, it was actually a budgierigar or budgie, because that’s the proper name for what we usually call parakeets in the States.) He was a fun little thing, blue and white. Because he was too young to know his sex yet, I named him Hobbie, after Holly Hobbie, which gives you an idea of my age. He was quite smart, and in the time I had him, he learned to whistle, mimic the telephone, and say a handful of phrases. I loved to play with him, to let him ride around on my shoulder, to watch him play with his toys.

Hobbie, however, turned out to be like a Greek tragic hero. His fatal flaw was that he loved to do flybys on my mom’s sheltie Benji. Benji, of course, thought that this was part of his work as a sheepdog and that his job was to catch the errant bird and herd him back to his cage where he belonged. About two years later, we were living in New Jersey, and Hobbie did one of his trademark flybys, Benji grabbed for him… and got him. Benji let go right away, but the damage was already done. Hobbie’s leg was broken in three different places. My parents were wonderful, finding an avian vet, taking us there to have Hobbie’s leg splinted, and keeping him under a heat lamp overnight - in my room, as I insisted. But Hobbie was too gravely injured, and he did not last the night.

Soon thereafter, Mom brought home a new budgie for me. Puffy was mostly white with a little blue, and she was even smarter than Hobbie. Thankfully, she didn’t try to buzz the dog, but she was fascinated with the big sliding glass door at the back of our home, and one day somebody opened it while she was out playing in the dining room, and she bolted for freedom. We never saw her again.

Not too long after that, we moved to Virginia Beach for the first time, and after we were settled in our house, I picked out a beautiful lutino (all yellow) baby budgie that we brought home and named Sunbeam. It’s hard to tell with babies how they’re going to be when they mature. Sunbeam was docile and fairly easy to finger-train. This is because she was retarded. You put your finger against her belly, and she would step up, purely from reflex. She did not sing. She did not mimic. She rarely played with her toys. She would sit on whatever perch you placed her, and just… sit there. When hungry or thirsty, she would take nourishment. And then she would sit. If startled, she would move. If she was out for playtime and was startled, she would fly. In a straight line. Until she hit an immovable object and slid to the floor. And then, wherever on the floor she landed, she would sit. Still, silent, unmoving. Retarded.

At first, we thought she might just be really shy. So after a couple months, enough time to be bonded to us, we brought home a blue and white budgie that we named Danny. Danny was outgoing, cheerful, and smart. He loved to sing and play, could solve fairly easy problems, and was generally good company. Danny was not able to bring Sunbeam out of her shell. If anything, she seemed relieved that now the pressure would be off of her, so now she could be as still and quiet as she wanted. Danny was there to amuse us big goofy humans, so she could return to her contemplation.

In the meantime, we moved to the naval shipyard at Philadelphia, but we weren’t able to keep the birds when we had to move back to Virginia. Our house was being built, and we were staying in efficiencies and with friends until it was completed so that my sister and I could start school here at the beginning of the school year. We gave Sunbeam and Danny and all their accoutrements to a neighbor on the base and told her about Sunbeam’s, erm, unique personality. Or lack thereof. She didn’t believe us.

Two days after adopting the budgies, the neighbor came across the lawn to see Mom. I peeked out the window to see what they were saying, and this is what I head. “You know, I didn’t believe what you told me about Sunbeam. But you were right. That bird is retarded.”