I called the vet hospital recommended by a local pet store, and confirmed that they do have an avian veterinarian on staff. Even better: he was available immediately, via e-mail. I didn't even have an appointment, and I was able to e-mail him the story of Pidgie's symptoms and situation and so forth.

He got back to me right away and said it was probably a respiratory infection, which my bird should be seen for. He squeezed me into his schedule this morning, and so, with bird-love in my heart, I managed to wring myself awake at the ass crack of eight in the morning to take my parakeet to the vet.

You can imagine that Pigwidgeon was not thrilled with the whole experience. I covered his cage with a towel and hoped for the best. I tried to talk soothingly and stuff, but I doubt my presence was any comfort to him since mostly, I terrify him. That's the loving bond he and I have created. Isn't it touching?

The vet is a jolly sort of guy who I liked immediately-- anyone who loves animals enough to be a vet gets points in my book. He grabbed Pigwidgeon and wrapped him in a towel, then pulled out one of those eye-light-shining things (I think the technical term is "flashlight") and checked his eyeballs. Then he pulled out a giant silver stethoscope that was almost as big as Pigwidgeon. It was pretty funny to see this humongous thing sitting on top of my bird, while Pigwidgeon bit the edges of it curiously.

Incidentally, it was weird to have to write "female" as his gender on all the forms. You'd think I'd be able to call him a "her" during the duration of one short vet visit, but it didn't happen. I told the vet my story of idiocy, and he humored me in calling him a him.

The diagnosis was definitely respiratory infection, and Pigwidgeon needed a shot of antibiotics right then (to kick start the healing process) and then two doses a day for the next whatever length of time. Fortunately, Pigwidgeon was taken away from me for the injecting process. As you can imagine, I really couldn't deal with that.

I also got this little vial of clear liquid that I have to somehow feed to my bird with an eye dropper. Twice a day, I have to try and catch him and force him to drink it. He's going to love that game! I also love how the prescription bottle says "Pigwidgeon" on it all official-like. You give your animals these ridiculous little names, and then there they are, printed on medicine labels and invoices.

Speaking of invoices, this stuff ended up costing me well over $100. Yowch. It has to be done, though... as Sars is always admonishing people, once you take on the responsibility of a pet, vet bills go with the territory. You can't withhold treatment from a pet because you don't want to pony up the cash; that's just selfish. Still, $100. Permit me to yowch for a moment.

Anyway, after the icky thing was done, they brought the bird back out to me and there he was, just perched on his stick all mellow-like. The nurse said, "He seems pretty laid back." I'm all, "What, MY bird? My bird who flips out when you blink too fast in his general direction? Yeah. Laid back. That's him."

But to tell you the truth, he handled it really well. When I got him home and set up his cage again, it took only a few minutes for him to fluff himself up and start nibbling the treat I gave him. (Millet seed: the bird equivalent of a post-doctor lollipop.)

Sadly, I have to keep Phoebe and Pigwidgeon separated still. Not because it's infectious (the vet said it isn't) but so I can catch Pigwidgeon twice a day without flipping Phoebe out, so I can aim a heat lamp on him when he needs it, and other such things.

For now, they continue to climb up the sides of their respective cages, facing each other through the bars and tweeting plaintively. It's like a prison drama in this place.