Fritz

 

I was about to turn twelve and I knew exactly what I wanted for my birthday:

“I want a pet, Mom. I want a dog.”

She looked at me sideways.

“I really, really want a dog.”

“And who will take care of this dog? Who will walk it in the rain, in the cold, before school, after school and every evening? Besides, your sister has asthma and is allergic to dogs. Plus, she’s terrified of them. “

Actually, my mother wasn’t too happy around dogs either. It was only my father and I who considered every dog we saw a dog to befriend. I had been bitten by my neighbor’s beagle, the one that imitated fire truck sirens when he howled. Even that had not altered my affection for the furry, tail-wagging species. Clearly my mother’s word was law on this matter. No dog was going to gambol up our steps or cross the threshold into the Hoffer household.

“No dog. If you want a pet, you can have a fish or a bird.”

“A FISH?” I screamed. Can’t pet a fish!!  Cold, wet thing in cold, wet water. Slimy, yucky tank to clean up. At least a bird has a heartbeat you can feel and a personality you can relate to. My Uncle Mike had a bird named Pepper who he just adored. A bird is warm and soft, I thought, as I tried to convince myself. I didn’t give my mother the satisfaction that I would even consider a puny, little bird as a replacement for a big, huggable dog. I produced a dramatic “humph” for my mother’s sake, pouted, and turned on my heel. Each petulant footfall announced my disappointment as I thumped up the stairs to sulk in my bedroom. . . I would have to settle for the bird option.

My parents took me to the city to get the bird. It wasn’t my birthday yet, but I was seeing an endocrinologist in Manhattan that morning because I had been diagnosed with diabetes. I didn’t understand at eleven, the significance childhood diabetes, so I wasn’t as upset as my mother. I believe she thought that going out to Horn and Hardart (my favorite place in the whole wide world to eat) and adopting a bird would distract me from the seriousness of the day and turn it into something celebratory.

 We went to Gertz’s Department Store of all places. The pet section was in the middle of the basement where a large birdcage was crowded with little budgies. Some postured and preened; others puffed sleepily, beaks tucked in. Some flopped around in an attempt to fly, and one climbed around the cage with mad energy. Up the side of the cage, across the roof, down the other side, he scrambled. A proud look from his bright little eyes and a single triumphant squawk when he stopped for a breath. He had the weirdest moves: he would hang from the top of the cage with one skinny leg outstretched from each side, claws clinging to the top bars of the cage, in right-side-up bat position. A truly odd, nutty bird. That was the bird for me. He had beautiful, feathers of pale blue alternating with cobalt blue, rippled with ebony, a pale blue chest, and a nose that would change to lavender as he got older.

As we travelled back by subway, the poor bird must have been petrified inside the little box that I clutched close to me. Alone, inside his new cage in our dining room without any other budgies, must have been a difficult transition for him. Some warning noises and a bird bite were guaranteed if any of us came too close.

I wanted to name him Henry, my father’s name, but my mother was horrified and forbade me to do that. She carefully explained that in our tradition you don’t name a living thing after a person who is alive. Supposedly, this might confuse the angel of death. I chose instead, the name “Fritz,” a character in The Swiss Family Robinson We didn’t know anyone named Fritz, although Mom was still uncomfortable with the idea. I must have absorbed her sense of what was appropriate for a pet’s name. As an adult, I have given none of my pets human names. (If you must know, they have had names like Ketzel, Pretty, Pumpkin, HoneyBun and Bongo.)

Gradually, over the weeks, Fritz got used to our presence and my slowly approaching hand.  The bird bites converted to kisses. He greeted me with a morning chirp when I uncovered the cage. Sometimes this was followed by an entire bird-speak monologue about what had ensued in the night and what the birds in the backyard were gossiping about. When we ran the water in the kitchen, he sang and sang, as if the water sounds were a chorus of other birds. He had fits of head-bobbing, accompanied by a harangue of loud chugging noises. “Listen to me.” “Hear me squawk!” He mimicked the patterns of the clicks and whistles that I made when I talked to him or as I passed his cage. He caught the pattern of a two-note “hello”, but never succeeded in pronouncing the word. His warmth and fuzziness were not nearly a replacement for my hoped-for dog, but knowing that this bright nutty bird was there for me made me smile inside and out.

When I was 18, I went on my own 5-week Swiss Family Robinson adventure with my sister. I had never left my little bird. I missed his familiar nuzzling and whistling noises, but it turns out poor Fritz missed me much more. My mother told me that after I left, he hardly ate, descended to the bottom of his cage, and stayed down there for a week. Good Jewish bird. He knew to sit Shivah. Even running water did not elicit a peep from him. Mom was afraid that the bird would die of a broken heart. She was very relieved when he climbed up from the depths of his cage on the eighth day.

At the sound of my voice, upon my return, Fritz squawked at me in repetitive complaint: “Do you know how hard it was? I didn’t know if you were dead or alive. Maybe you just abandoned me? Why? What had I done?”  This was followed by an almost strangled peep. Things went back to normal. He and I exchanged kissy sounds and whistles every time I walked past his cage. He returned to eating his food and millet, playing with the bird in the mirror, and chirping his happy tunes. A happy home for a happy bird.

About two years later, I noticed Fritz was back to his babyhood gymnastics. He’d climb to the top of the cage, invert himself, hang with one claw pinned on each side. Was he going into his second childhood? Perhaps birds get dementia the way humans do. It was the beginning of his demise. He passed away when I was 21. I wept. Now I was the one who was sitting Shiva for him.

We buried Fritz under the grape arbor. In winter, there were always birds huddled up on the telephone line above. In summer, they hunted in the grape arbor to savor the delectable concord grapes and got slightly drunk from them at the end of the season. There were starlings and wrens, blue jays and cardinals, who congregated near his gravesite, but my favorite little bird lay in a shoe box buried deep under the grape arbor. RIP, Fritz..

M.Hoffer

1.13.21