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First Person

I'd rather not look back into my own genealogy, but I'll lovingly document my pets' family tree, Laurie Best writes

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I showed a friend, with pride and embarrassment, my family photo albums. Doesn't everyone show off their family and boast of their accomplishments, beauty or honours?

"Who is this stunner?" she asked, pointing to a pretty little blond.

"Her name is Sophia!"

I explained that she was no longer with us, dying exhausted from producing too many babies.

"That's awful!" my friend gasped. "This is the 21st century! Couldn't she practice birth control?"

"Yes, it was tragic," I agreed, wiping away a tear. "But she loved babies – born to be a mother. And it wasn't as though her biological clock was ticking. She already had babies at a young age. We even tried birth control shots, but she was determined. Nothing could stop her. Eventually she collapsed."

It occurs to me now that since my own two daughters have no intention of becoming mothers, I may have lived a little too vicariously through my Sophia, a canary.

Moving on to the second book, I began to worry that my friend might wonder about my compulsion to collect pictures, complete with detailed notations as to where in the family tree the subjects all fit. I have never been one to embrace researching one's actual family heritage – a current fad that includes analyzing DNA. My interest wanes after my immediate predecessors and my children.

The reason for this lapse is that we have an entire closet full of drunken uncles, unsavoury relatives, unwanted pregnancies that, back in the day, demanded marriage as a solution. So my attitude has always been that I'll deal with the relatives still alive and keep the past a delightful mystery.

You might think, then, that I'd be the last one to keep detailed (albeit messy) notes of recent births, deaths, marriages or partnerships. But I do… for my pet birds.

I have more detailed albums of my birds than of my family. Fortunately, my actual children don't mind; they are bird freaks, too.

My neighbour, when she saw my photo albums, notes, rudimentary drawings of avian family trees and even veterinary condolence cards, was awestruck. I admit it is an unusual hobby. I am, I suppose, "the weird bird lady."

We've always had pets in the family, everything from dogs, rabbits, snakes, hamsters to birds – no cats for obvious reasons. But the bird fetish began in earnest when my children were teenagers. We had a cockatiel and a Bourke's parakeet, both dearly loved members of our family. When my oldest daughter went off to university, she felt lonely without a pet. I offered to get her a small bird to keep her company. She decided on tiny zebra finches – birds smaller than chickadees. And, of course, one bird would be lonely by itself. So, Mr. and Mrs. Jones set up house with her.

They proved delightful companions for her college years and they were carted undercover through apartment lobbies disguised as "art projects" – should anyone ask. The female had a cranky disposition and, when she saw my daughter cooking rice (the bird's favourite), she let loose with her testy "beep" to announce that she was impatient for dinner. Her mate was suitably gentle (he had to be, given her disposition) so there was no doubt as to who ruled their roost. They tried but never successfully reproduced – our fanciful musings being that Mrs. Jones was too much of a career woman to be a nurturer. In fact, her career was annoying her mate.

When my second daughter left for college, she too took tiny finches with her. They did reproduce – making my daughter's small apartment seem even smaller. Their three offspring (Grizzle, Sal and Boo) eventually joined my flock as it mushroomed – to 25 birds. By this time, I had branched out to include canaries, another cockatiel and a flaming pink rosy Bourke's parakeet – a resplendent creature (her people native to Australia) with the attitude of a Victorian diva.

They deserved names – all being special family members: Squiffy, Squeeky, Pokey, Patches, Samson, Dopey, Newton, Barney… and on and on. I realize they sound like the seven dwarfs on Disney steroids.

The experience with my DIY aviary was eye opening, instructional and fun. I got to watch, up close and personal, the birth, feeding and rearing of baby birds – an extraordinary experience.

I had emergency trips to the vet – for bumblefoot (an infection, not a bird's name), a broken wing, the aforementioned birth-control shots and respiratory illnesses that required the tiny patients to be temporarily given oxygen masks.

People don't realize that birds have their own unique personalities. And family dramas were just as prevalent in my avian world as the real one. We had a pair of lesbians (they made a sweet couple), jealousy spats, divorces and one murder (a female canary, unbeknownst to me, quietly starved her sister). The only thing missing in my avian Dallas is big-shouldered outfits.

My albums noted names, births and deaths. Recalling the absurd goldfish down the toilet-bowl funeral performed by the Huxtable family in The Cosby Show sitcom, I chose to provide a dignified farewell for my pets. First, the tiny feathered bodies were put in Dove soap boxes in the freezer to await proper burials outside.

We honoured each soul – even when we were forced to hole one mass burial when several birds died of old age and things piled up in the freezer. Laying them out side-by-side in their grave, we marvelled at their brilliant tones: yellow, blue, orange, even green. After that service, we could finally stop warning guests going to our freezer for a Popsicle to avoid the Dove boxes.

My neighbour, after hearing about my avian world, laughed: "You should write a book about this. It would be hilarious!"

It might, but nobody would believe me.

Laurie Best lives in Waterloo, Ont.

First Person digital short: Visit tgam.ca/firstperson to see a video adaptation of the essay How I became the fool on the hill.