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The Elusive Mr. Right
May 30, 2001
I awoke again this morning to the sounds of Mr. Right singing in the next room. Though it was melodic and beautiful, I stayed in bed half-asleep wondering how I could allow into my life someone who could be so chirpy before noon. You'd think the blue hair and flighty tendencies would have tipped me off.
Okay, before I suddenly receive a barrage of e-mails questioning my lagging morals, I should explain that Mr. Right is my new pet parakeet. I kind of won him at a work function, though there was an "out clause" in case I wasn't interested in a new roommate. The poor bird sat in his cage in my office for several days while I contemplated whether or not I should allow him to become my new bird-brained companion. I mean, I was just hitting my stride in making the most of living alone. And the pet shop brochure said parakeets live 10-20 years. I think that's longer than the average American marriage these days. This was a major commitment!
But then I remembered my single friend Kate, the proud "Mom" of two cats, constantly singing the praises of her four-footed companions — along with countless numbers of you Single File readers who've written me about your beloved pets. When I got a place of my own a couple months ago, Kate began the crusade again for me to become a fellow pet-owner. "You'd love it!" she encouraged while scratching the head of Harry, her gray, plume-tailed feline, whose eyes were shut in utter ecstasy.
Attempting to similarly bond with my new bird, I closed my office door one day and started singing to him — "Blue Moon" (because he's blue, of course), "Zippity Do Dah" (because of the "Mr. Bluebird on my shoulder" line), and "You Are My Sunshine" (I have no idea why). Instead of seeming alarmed by my mediocre singing voice, he started singing along — the first peep I'd heard out of his cute little beak. I was sold!
Kate and I'd also joked about how funny it would be for me, a singles columnist and self-proclaimed SingleWoman, to have a pet named Mr. Right. It seemed to somehow complete the picture and make me seem colorful (or, depending on how you look at it, shallow for naming my pet solely for humor purposes!). I envisioned all the recent Disney flicks in which the hero has a winged sidekick constantly perched on his or her shoulder offering witty banter or the secret to slewing the bad guys. With these images flitting through my head, I took Mr. Right home.
It didn't take long for me to realize I was the bird-brained one. The next time I sat down next to Mr. Right's cage and attempted another sing-along, he just stared at me and silently cocked his head. And instead of offering me any secrets for survival, Mr. Right just flipped seed shells everywhere and pooped in his water dish. Hmmm. No honeymoon period here.
Then came my biggest bird-brained idea yet. Maybe Mr. Right would loosen up if he had the chance to spread his wings. So I propped open his front door and slowly coaxed him out. Well, actually, after my attempts at coaxing failed, I scared him out by tapping on the other side of his cage. It was thrilling to watch him wing his way around my apartment (while I silently prayed he wouldn't poop on anything too important). He alternately perched on my windowsills, pictures, and furniture, looking at home in my humble abode. Maybe this was going to work out after all!
Of course, that thought faded fast when I tried to get him back in his cage. I spoke soothingly, explaining it was time to go back into his "room." I offered a finger, a hand, an arm, my head — anything for him to perch upon so I could scoop him up and gingerly place him back in his home. But he was repelled instead of drawn to my advances (typical!) — and I ended up feeling like an odd throwback to the lame Statue game we used to play as children. The only option left was trying to sneak up and catch him whenever he landed. But each time I seemed close to catching my fine feathered friend, he escaped my grasp. After about 40 minutes of chasing him around my living room, I was stumped. So I called for backup.
My friend Lori, a fellow bird owner, flew over to my apartment, and for the next 40 minutes the two of us chased him around my living room. If only the passersby on the street below knew what humorous entertainment was available in the windows just three floors up! After a few near-catches, Mr. Right finally landed on a hat on my hall tree. Lori, who I now call The Bird Whisperer, slowly lifted the hat, brought it over to his cage, and kind of plopped him in. I quickly shut the door, and Lori and I high-fived (all the while huffing and puffing from our chase).
All in all, I've learned several valuable lessons from this new relationship. First, go slow. Instead of going straight for flight, I should have worked on letting Mr. Right and I get used to each other's presence. We're slowly warming up to each other, and I look forward to the day when he'll trust me enough to perch on my finger and I'll trust him enough not to poop all over me. Second, I've got a pretty good single life going here and allowing any old guy into the picture will only cramp my style. For example, Mr. Right now has me rising early even on Saturdays and vacuuming nearly every other day — two things I'm NOT accustomed to. Third, and most important, Mr. Right is hard to catch. But then, I already knew that!
Blessings!
Camerin Courtney
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Copyright © 2001 ChristianityToday.com
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