Human interaction is a blessing. One can never get enough of mingling with the same kind, even if the same kind might have longer ears than you, are taller and a lot more populated around the waist - it never matters, for meeting new people is as exciting as being a perfectly capable candidate in Smoke Ring Blowing Competitions.

But sometimes when we are seriously fed up with interacting with our fellow beings, we tend to find interacting solace with other friends… like animals. Dogs are a man’s friend, they’ve always said, but recently I have made a very unusual friendship and it wasn’t a dog that I could take for a walk in the park and happily pick up his shit from where ever he drops it – and this, not because it’s the right thing to do, but because I’m trying to avoid a $200 fine for doing the right thing.

And no, I have not made friends with my neighbour’s cats, who lurch around the street at midnight in groups, like rival gangs, scratching and meowing around the front lawns of my house.

No, I did not make those popular pet friends.

I made friends with a strange yellow bird. At first we were fighting, I was chasing it away from my window and it was coming back. I hated the bird at the beginning but after a period of constant nagging and swearing at a speechless bird, who thankfully chirped on the odd occasion – we became close mates.

It all started two weeks ago. I was helplessly chewing on my upper lip, staring intently into my computer screen, hoping to finish a short story, with no luck on roping out a genius piece of imagination, when this bird came out of nowhere and flew directly into my window, hitting against it and falling onto the window railing. I was so annoyed for I was just about to pull out a great literary piece from the well I was in when the bird interrupted my enormity of thought. 
 
I looked at this feeble little yellow bird crouching in the corner, trying to avoid the bitter cold wind that was circling around and making my blinds rattle crazily.

I knocked on the window to scare it away, but it didn’t move. It stayed put in its shivering position. I kept banging the window, but the hard beating sound from my fist was not even making it flinch or turn around. I thought I was losing my masculinity.

 “Go away,” I said angrily. I walked outside and lit a cigarette next to it.

I picked up a stick and hit it lightly. It still didn’t move.

It started to piss me off, I never liked trespassers. I placed the stick beneath it and lifted up the bird and swung the stick as hard as I could. It flew away finally.

I finished my smoke and went back inside. I could no longer write anything to finish the story so I went to bed and fell asleep.

The next day when I woke up I saw the bird sitting in the corner again. “You again,” I screamed.

It was a cold morning and I didn’t want to go outside. I turned my speakers around to face the bird and opened the window and put on Tool full blast. The speakers were about to explode from the screaming instruments, but the damn bird still didn’t move.

“I admire your courage, but I’ll get you,” I said.

'I’m gonna kill this fucker', I thought to myself.

I went to the laundry and found some rat poison I had used before when I had rat dilemmas in my house and scrunched the bits into dust and sprinkled it over small pieces of bread that I chopped up. I placed the pieces next to the bird and it moved its head and looked at it. Then it snuffled the bread pieces and turned around again to its corner, showing no interest whatsoever.

Then it hit me. Why am I being so harsh to it, I thought. I felt compassion for this little creature. I was never an animal type of guy and always kicked my friend’s dogs when I got the chance, but the bird’s bravery and fearless actions really touched me. I reached out a hand and caressed it. It didn’t mind.  'How cute', I thought and it chirped. I brushed off the rat poison bread pieces and tried to pick the bird up. It jumped on my hand voluntarily.

Thoughts crossed my mind about choking the little thing, but its shiny yellow feathers were so beautiful and as it sat there helplessly on my hand, its warm body pulsating against my palm – I shared a kind-hearted moment with life’s living creatures.

For the next two weeks we communicated on various levels. It chirped and I spoke. We had an intent relationship. I was telling it all my secrets and it acknowledged my fortunate tales with three consecutive chirps and the misfortunate tales of life, it acknowledged with one nodding chirp.

I was really happy to have a pet friend. It never occurred to me that birds could be so much fun. I even named it. Zappa.

But nearing the end of our two week relationship I arrived home once to find it lying dead on my bed. I kneeled next to it and examined the mysterious case. It had no signs of rat struggle or any vicious attack at all. But its beak had brushed into some kind of purple powder. I started at it until I realised it had stuck its beak into the package of rat poison I left carelessly on my table. I was heart broken.

I picked Zappa up and carried him to my backyard. I put on “Djurdevdan” of Goran Bregovic and the sad, destitute gypsy driven sound marked the moment like a psalm for the dead - a requiem for Zappa. I buried my little yellow buddy and placed flowers on top of his grave.
“May life after death treat with kindness and respect that you deserve,” I whispered.
‘Chirp, Chirp!’
 “WHAT THE FUCK!”