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Listening to: From the Choirgirl Hotel. Not for long, though... it's not really matching my mood quite like I was expecting it too.

Currently Reading: Just barely started Jonathan Lethem's Gun, With Occasional Music. Kind of saving it for the train, as well as a stack of others (both fiction and non). Also, I recently read Laurie Notaro's I Love Everybody (and Other Atrocious Lies): True Tales of a Loudmouth Girl (again) in like two days, and peed myself laughing. Highly recommended. I also devoured The Broke Diaries by Angela Nissel in, like, a mere few days. Laughed until I peed. Also highly recommended.

Wishing: income. Lots of it. Other than that, life's pretty good.

I couldn't be more The current mood of ronkc@diaryland.com at www.imood.com right now.

Buy "Civilised Conversation..." Merchandise! Please? All the cool kids are doing it....

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Do you love me?

12 April 2002 | 8:03 PM

Wendy Had Never Liked Scisors.

Okay.

I am plum tuckered and stuffed like a big fat manicotti. Here's why.

Earlier today (late morning, early afternoon), I was studying and Reverend Doctor Wendyll Kendall-Proctor was walking around on my bed. I noticed that her nails were snagging on different materials. The book says to trim them when they get snaggy. Despite knowing that Sherra from down the hall said that she would help me clip the tips of Wendy's nails later, I decided that it would be a terrific idea to just try to do this mammoth job all by my little lonesome.

Wendy had never liked scisors.

I was working on clipping one of her nails. She twitched. I cut too high on the nail and hit a bloodline.

Background: Birds are like hemophiliacs, insofar as when they start bleeding (especially from a bloodfeather or nail line), it's nearly impossible to stop without professional help. Additionally, because birds are so small, they are more likely to lose enough blood quickly enough to die in just a few hours.

With this knowledge in the back of my now-racing mind, I freak. I find some gladware and fill it with baking soda, knowing that when I cut myself shaving a little baking soda-paste concoction fixes it right up, like a styptic pencil. So, I try to make her sit with both feet in the baking soda (since it was so traumatic that I still have no idea which foot it was). Marita came and held Wendy in the baking soda until I got showered and dressed. Having to go to class, Marita wished me luck and I was on my way, with a gladware full of baking soda and bleeding bird, inside a dark pillowcase. Don and I walked to the nearest animal clinic we knew of, which is on 12th. It doesn't seem as far away when you're not trying to powerwalk while calming a bird swimming in baking soda.

We finally get to the clinic, where they inform us that they only work on cats and dogs, but that during the walk, she seemed to have stop bleeding. Huzzah! It was then I noticed that In my haste, I had created an environment in which my dear Wendy would get her eyes, nostils, and beak full of baking soda. She was tearing and sneezing and making chewing motions like you wouldn't believe. The vet told me that if she doesn't see to those issues by herself, to flush her with warm water.

I came home, and reviewed the book, which suggests the same course of action. So, I bathed her.

She has never been fond of bathing, so she was probably feeling scared, wet, cold, faint... Now, when a bird is injured or sick, one is supposed to keep them calm, warm, and in a dark environment. I closed the blinds, wrapped her little newborn-looking body in towels and held her close to my chest for quite some time, like the vigilant mother I never stopped to appreciate as much as I should have. "We're going to make it, baby," I thought to myself, as she slept so peacefully. Not that simple, actually.

When I bathed her, the water had disolved the baking powder that was stopping the blood. So she continued to bleed. Profusely. I thought that if I just kept her warm enough and let her sleep, she would be fine. When she didn't stop bleeding, I knew it was time to call the Bird and Exotic Clinic in Ballard on the business card given to me by the staff at the (dog/cat specific) clinic on 12th.

I called them and explained to the guy (Mark, I think his name is), what was going on. He said to get there ey-sap. I called the scariest cab I could find (one would think,) and got down there after a $17 ride. I went in, and they took her immediately, a confirmation for me that (a) I'm a terrible father for nearly cutting off my daughter's foot, and (b) for letting her sleep while losing a substantial ammount of blood, thereby (c) nearly killing my only daughter.

While they worked on the patient, I was busy explaining to Mark that we call her "Wendy," but her name is really The Reverend Doctor Wendyll Kendall-Proctor. I didn't think it would be that big of an issue. I mean, my name is Christopher, but everyone knows me as Chris, or Hey, fatass.

Mark and Dr. Mary both ended up explaining to me the following analogies:

Birds : Birdseed :: Humans : Crack Cocaine.
Birds : Birdseed :: Humans : Chocolate mousse and Fries.

The point was that seeds, (the primary component of her diet) have no nutritional value, but are very fatty. When humans eat fatty things, they get fat. When birds eat fatty things, they store it in the liver, and die earlier than they should. The moral of the lecture is (a) Chris is a negligent father for nutritional negligence (and accidental birdslaugher with a deadly weapon), and that after a physical, I should switch her (gradually) to a pellet diet. They loaded me with brochures about the physical exams and pellet diets, &c. They also sold me some styptic powder, so if this were to happen again, I would be better prepared.

They fixed her foot, covering it with several compounds. They also injected her with whatever they inject into animals who have lost a substantial amount of blood (sugars and vitamins, as far as I can remember, it was really traumatic for me, having accidentally almost killing my daughter, you know how it is). I have to take her back for an anual physical on Monday morning, since she didn't look as good to them as they felt she should (I assume that they failed to factor in the accidental near-murder, the baking-soda swim, the bath, the second accidental near-murder, and a terrifying cab ride to Ballard.

She pulled through (barely) and still loves me (as far as I can tell, or maybe she's just too weak to peck my eyes out, which I completely deserve).

I got her back here after re-wrapping her in a million blood-stained towels, (no, I don't look shady at all). We made our return trip via the second scariest cab driver on the planet (a cell phone user, a multi-lane at a time driver, and a newfound cockatiel enthusiast who felt the need to turn around and look at my baby while driving).

As instructed, I put her in her cage and covered it in towels and blankets in order to keep her warm.

She's sleeping right now. I hope she's okay.

After having a most traumatic day, having only eaten an apple with a glass of skim milk, I was intersted a little food. So Don and I went to the shitty cafeteria, where I binge-ate like a... I don't know what.

So now, I'm full and tired and in an adrenaline-coma and still have homework and bloodstained towels to tend to.

My God. I almost lost my daughter today.

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