Part of the Pride Read Online Free Page A
Author: Kevin Richardson
though tough and intelligent, amphibian.
I learned a lot through
Paddatjie
âespecially that it wasnât essential for everything I picked or dug up to be kept in a box twenty-four hours a day. Even though I thought it was good for him to experience life as a free-range frog from time to time, I was terribly disappointed when one day he hopped out of his box and disappeared for good.
More rewarding, of course, was when I released my homing pigeons and they actually did come home. However, even in the pigeon
hok
nature could be cruel. One day our Rhodesian Ridgeback, a big, fierce, sandy-colored breed of dog, and our Labrador got into the
hok
and killed all thirty of my pigeons. I think my mother was secretly happy, as Iâm sure she had long wanted all the pigeons dead. I just wanted to kill the dogs.
As I got older, my reputation earned me a nicknameâThe Birdman of Orange Grove. Any bird which was sick or injured would be brought to my house. Some enterprising criminals even began stealing baby pigeons from their nests and asking me for five bobâfifty centsâfor them. That was a lot of money for me, but I was usually able to sweet-talk them into giving me the chick for nothing, or forsome food from our house. The African people who were taking the birds were doing it because they were hungry.
I couldnât count how many baby birds I rescued, reared, and released. The nicest thing was when a bird I had sent back to the wild returned to the house or sat on my shoulder again. I also found that I was enjoying setting things free far more than trapping them, so I adopted this policy with my collection of parrots, letting them out of their cages. Some flew away and never returned, and although I took to putting up reward posters around the neighborhood, I eventually realized this was part of life. Sometimes things left and never came back.
A couple of birds stick in my mind. Mouse the mouse bird, whose name was about as original as
Paddatjie
the frog, had been kicked out of his nest in the wild because he had a deformed wing. Because he could never fly, he really was like a little mouse. He walked everywhere with me and really touched my life. He depended on me totally, and it gave me a great deal of satisfaction knowing that without my care he wouldnât make it in the world. J.R. the parrot had lived in a cage all his life, and when I released him for the first time he was like a long-term prisoner set free from jail. He didnât know what to do with himself. He would run around the floor in circles acting crazy. It was as if he was panicked by the sudden excess of space around him. J.R. was a vicious bird, who had savaged many a finger in his time, but over time I was able to tame and calm him and he became a gentle companion inside and outside his cage. An African Grey Parrot can live to fifty or sixty years of age, but after having soothed this traumatized jail bird, it was crushing for me when he died of a bird cold. It was always tough for me when one of my pets died. Although I toughened up as I got older, there were some animals that would stay in my heart forever.
From an early age I realized I wouldnât be content just to look at my pets. I wanted to get to know each one, to build a relationship with it and to test the boundaries of how I could react to it, and vice versa. I wasnât cruel to them, just curious. I learned that each bird or animal was an individual. For example, in the pigeon
hok
I discovered the bird in the end box would peck my hand if I tried to take her eggs, but the one at the opposite end would sit aside and tolerate my prying, because I had a better relationship with her and she had a more tolerant nature. From this early age, I became an observer of note, and to this day I am fastidious about keeping notes and records about my animals and every aspect of their lives. I would study my birds and animals for hours on end. I was pretty good at sketching.
I learned a lot through
Paddatjie
âespecially that it wasnât essential for everything I picked or dug up to be kept in a box twenty-four hours a day. Even though I thought it was good for him to experience life as a free-range frog from time to time, I was terribly disappointed when one day he hopped out of his box and disappeared for good.
More rewarding, of course, was when I released my homing pigeons and they actually did come home. However, even in the pigeon
hok
nature could be cruel. One day our Rhodesian Ridgeback, a big, fierce, sandy-colored breed of dog, and our Labrador got into the
hok
and killed all thirty of my pigeons. I think my mother was secretly happy, as Iâm sure she had long wanted all the pigeons dead. I just wanted to kill the dogs.
As I got older, my reputation earned me a nicknameâThe Birdman of Orange Grove. Any bird which was sick or injured would be brought to my house. Some enterprising criminals even began stealing baby pigeons from their nests and asking me for five bobâfifty centsâfor them. That was a lot of money for me, but I was usually able to sweet-talk them into giving me the chick for nothing, or forsome food from our house. The African people who were taking the birds were doing it because they were hungry.
I couldnât count how many baby birds I rescued, reared, and released. The nicest thing was when a bird I had sent back to the wild returned to the house or sat on my shoulder again. I also found that I was enjoying setting things free far more than trapping them, so I adopted this policy with my collection of parrots, letting them out of their cages. Some flew away and never returned, and although I took to putting up reward posters around the neighborhood, I eventually realized this was part of life. Sometimes things left and never came back.
A couple of birds stick in my mind. Mouse the mouse bird, whose name was about as original as
Paddatjie
the frog, had been kicked out of his nest in the wild because he had a deformed wing. Because he could never fly, he really was like a little mouse. He walked everywhere with me and really touched my life. He depended on me totally, and it gave me a great deal of satisfaction knowing that without my care he wouldnât make it in the world. J.R. the parrot had lived in a cage all his life, and when I released him for the first time he was like a long-term prisoner set free from jail. He didnât know what to do with himself. He would run around the floor in circles acting crazy. It was as if he was panicked by the sudden excess of space around him. J.R. was a vicious bird, who had savaged many a finger in his time, but over time I was able to tame and calm him and he became a gentle companion inside and outside his cage. An African Grey Parrot can live to fifty or sixty years of age, but after having soothed this traumatized jail bird, it was crushing for me when he died of a bird cold. It was always tough for me when one of my pets died. Although I toughened up as I got older, there were some animals that would stay in my heart forever.
From an early age I realized I wouldnât be content just to look at my pets. I wanted to get to know each one, to build a relationship with it and to test the boundaries of how I could react to it, and vice versa. I wasnât cruel to them, just curious. I learned that each bird or animal was an individual. For example, in the pigeon
hok
I discovered the bird in the end box would peck my hand if I tried to take her eggs, but the one at the opposite end would sit aside and tolerate my prying, because I had a better relationship with her and she had a more tolerant nature. From this early age, I became an observer of note, and to this day I am fastidious about keeping notes and records about my animals and every aspect of their lives. I would study my birds and animals for hours on end. I was pretty good at sketching.
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