My bird is sick. Cassie. There's something wrong with little Cassie.

I don't know what's the matter with her. For the past hour, she's been sitting on my finger while I just cry and cry. Pathetic, isn't it? But anyone who has been reading this journal for a while knows how I feel about my bird. She was a comforting companion during my Time of Upheaval, and she is an affectionate little friend. The idea of a depressed or ailing Cassie upsets me greatly.

Here's the backstory:

On Wednesday, I left the birds out together (they seemed to be getting along okay) and the lights on (Pigwidgeon can't navigate so well at night... or ever, really, but night puts him at a serious disadvantage). I ended up going on an impromptu date with one of my classmates. So I was out much later than I intended.

When I came home, Cassie's feathers looked strange. A tiny bald spot near her left eye, and pinkish tinted crown feathers. I wondered if she and Pig had gotten into a fight. (Pigwidgeon is fine.) I figured I'd let her sleep it off. After all, that's what I was planning to do. I swallowed four Advil and a gallon of water, and crashed.

This morning, I had to wake up for work. Cassie looked much the same as she did last night. I made sure Pigwidgeon was locked up, and left Cassie's cage open so she could have a normal day.

See if you can follow THIS convoluted logic: Grey Beret dropped me off at home last night; I forgot that my car was at the BART station. So this morning, I was running late for work (too late to walk to BART for my car, as I had planned) and asked Leah if she would give me a ride to my car. She did so, but we ended up going out the front door. Which means that I locked my personal door from the inside. I don't have a key to the front door, just my door.

I came home tonight after work and school, and found I had locked myself out. So, I spent about three hours sitting in my car, reading a book, waiting for the fam to come home and let me in. Whereupon I found Cassie looking frighteningly unwell.

So far, her symptoms are as follows: diarrhea that's extremely watery, greenish excrement sticking to her vent, bizarre looking feathers still, restless behavior, and constant preening. She just looks really bad-- sick and confused. Like I said, my first reaction was hysterical crying. I turn into a five year old whenever my bird is involved.

I suppose it could be worse. I have been reading and re-reading the chapter in my parakeet book about parakeet illness. The good news is that she still is quite lively and energetic, and she seems to have an appetite. But the bad news is, there's really no way to tell what's wrong with her without having an avian veterinarian look at her. The worse news is, I'm leaving the fucking country and I can't take her with me.

What I'm supposed to do now is to give her vitamin supplements and try an infrared lamp on a limited basis. I have been very upset tonight because I don't HAVE an infrared lamp, and by the time I got into the house, it was 11:00, and too late to buy one. So I've given her vitamins and made sure she's taken them. I've covered Pigwidgeon to minimize her stress. I've replaced her mirror (maybe she misses her mirror image friend). I've talked to her a lot. I've kissed her fluffy tummy feathers. (Bad sign: she's never let me pet her and kiss her like she's letting me do now.) I hope all that helps.

However. I have to work for the next three days. Then I have school. Then I have to leave for Holland. At some point, I have to pack, and clean, and pay my bills, and do my laundry, and arrange for someone to take care of my pets, and wrap gifts, and pick up my grades, and on and on.

Tomorrow, for instance, I am scheduled to work. But I can't stand the idea of leaving Cassie like this for a whole day. I need to call in and tell them my bird is sick and I'm not coming in. They'll probably think I'm a total dolt. I don't care. It IS an emergency. It IS. And then I'm gong to get the infrared light and shine it on her. (While I try that out, I can also get my chores done, which is a plus.) If she still looks sick after that, I'm taking her to the vet down the street.

I can't stand the idea of leaving an unhappy and sick Cassie behind while I go on vacation. And I don't know what the hell to do with Pig, except keep him locked up, which is really sad. I'll have to put lots of toys in with him.

Just keep your fingers crossed for me. Or do some New Agey stuff with white light and crystals. Or sell your soul to the deity of your choice. Whatever it takes. Let's all just help Cassie get well soon.

I feel that I should say something less depressing now. I'm actually feeling calmer about Cassie. I have calmed down my inner child.

Oh, here's something. It's another story about me embarrassing myself. We all love those stories... and by "we" I mean my sister and cousin. (Quote from them, while reading my entries: "Oh god, she's using big words. She's trying to sound smart again.") So anyway. I was pulling espresso shots today at work. I was on a roll and really doing well on the bar.

(That is, until my co-worker Ernie decided to come "help" me. The guy is fucking slow as... I don't know what. A marathon runner with gangrene in both legs or something. He forgets to mark the cups, and has to ask people their orders five times, and marks cups twice, marks cups wrong, and generally pisses the hell out of the customers. I'm not fast enough to work bar by myself, but I'm sure as hell faster alone than I am if he's helping me. He's a super, super nice guy, with a great attitude, so I hate to talk smack about him. But I will anyway. That's what I'm here for.)

Okay, so imagine me, all smug and shit, because I'm so cool on the bar. I can foam the milk and pull the shots and make the drinks. There I am, putting the drinks on the bar, chirping perkily because I'm so proud of my drinks. "Double tall decaf latte! And have a super day!" "Triple grande Mocha Valencia! Enjoy that!" "A nonfat cappuccino with perfect foam... guaranteed!"

So in the middle of all this fun, I pull a shot of espresso, and put it in the machine, and put the shot glasses beneath it, and reach for the button. At that exact moment, my supervisor comes by and says, "Wow... you're really doing a great job." And I smile smugly, thinking why yes I am as I push the button. Suddenly, the espresso holder falls off the machine, falls on the shot glass, and it breaks into about a thousand pieces.

I just turn around sheepishly, put the drink on the counter and say, "I have a tall nonfat eggnog latte. With very little broken glass."

And my supervisor just laughs and laughs.

"Obviously, Litlu Tamoruh would have something to say about this. Suddenly I could see her, sitting there inside my heart, with Flicka by her pigtailed side. She looked very sad. "