On A Prayer And A Wing (Or Two Wings)

My dearest friend is on the verge of death and I am praying like mad that she’ll be able to come through with the slim chances she has even though I don’t really believe in magical sky fairies.

I’ve always seen 21st century prayer as something invented by the Americans to allow fast-talking charlatans to have multiple wives or closely related spouses; deceive the gullible; subjugate women, the impoverished or minorities; maybe even justify outlandish fairy tales like trickle-down economics, or a Dicktator* making their cuntry** great (grate?) again? There’s certainly not much goodwill in what I’ve seen of American Christianity.

But, I digress. I have been hoping beyond hope for the recovery of Dino, our rosy faced lovebird who regards herself as an evolved dinosaur (not one ridden by Jesus like the American Christians believe, though).

Poor Dino has been sick for months, and on Thursday night returned home from yet another visit from the avian vet who informed us that there was nothing he could do for her, effectively telling us to brace ourselves for the end.

I was shattered and burst into tears. For all of her life and nearly all of mine for the past five years, Dino has been a constant–and I mean constant in the sense of almost inseperable–presence. She mimics me, chirps sadly when I am not around, and nestles into my neck for warmth during the colder months, even climbing into my shirt when it gets really cold. She clearly adores me. And even though she is a bloody nuisance whose erraticism makes it difficult to use any household implements amid fear of her flying into them and causing harm, I think it’s fair to say the feeling is mutual. I perhaps love her more than is returned….at least I don’t take poops on her as she regularly did to me in her prime, nor do I lash out and bite her if she gets too close to my food or somewhere I have designated as my own territory.

For me, the proximity of our relationship is almost always summed up by two events: Dino will respond if she hears me talking over the phone with Mrs. Kangaeroo; and, following a monthlong trip Down Under back in 2022 the first thing she did upon my return was to present herself for mating at a time when we had wondered whethere she would even remember who I was. Her actions removed any doubt of that. And confirmed our relationship was something special.

I spoiled Dino too much, which is what has ultimately brought about her poor condition now. I let her eat from my plate at will without consideration for her health, and this is what has made her sick. She ate ravenously, but has continued to do that even now, which Mrs. Kangaeroo reckons is a sign of her ferocious will to live. I bloody hope so.

Unfortunately, avian vets are few and far between in western Tokyo, and circumstances forced us to seek the help of one who turned out to be rotten, completely misdiagonising Dino’s condition in April when we first noticed she was in some discomfort.

We were advised to make Dino diet to lose weight and regain her mojo. But it didn’t happen even as she thinned out, and it was clear that something was badly amiss, so we sought a second opinion.

That vet was astounded at the diagnosis that had been made and tried what he could to rectify the situation, but weeks later nothing had changed and then came the Thursday night prognosis.

There was one glimmer of hope: The Yokohama Bird Clinic is Japan’s leading hospital for birds and out r vet told us if there was anything that could be done to help Dino, it would be the place that could do it.

I was crestfallen at the news, but blessed by a company Wellness Day that would allow me to take Dino to seek emergency care if they could make some space for her. I was pleased to see her survive Thursday night, though she was clearly not in good shape Friday morning.

Further good news came when Mrs. Kangaeroo–with an incomparable record when it comes to rescuing lost causes–announced that she would join us.

We got on the roundabout journey that took over two hours to make it to the clinic on the outskirts of Yokohama. There, Dr. Ritsuko Kato oversaw a process that involved extracting a huge build-up of poop inside our little dinosaur, then took a CAT scan and X-ray to determine the cause. Poor little Dino is full of gas and her infected bum is stopping anything from getting out.

I’d feared Dino’s sole hope of survival would be presented to us as an operation due to blockage. The chances of survival in such cases is extremely low. Mrs. Kangaeroo later told me that if she had been presented with that option, she would have refused and taken Dino home with us to spend her remaining time there. I would have gone along with my wife’s sentiment in respect to her wishes.

Fortunately, that wasn’t the case. Dr. Kato recommended we have Dino hospitalized where they could treat her bum and insides so she could poop again, as well as carry out the daily waste extraction that we were unable to and thus jeopardized Dino’s chances of survival.

There was no hestitation. Indeed, it was a much brighter proposition than I had hoped for. Poor Dino looked a little lost in the tiny container she was held in under the bright hospital lights, but she was also brighter and, literally, chirpier than she had been before Dr. Kato had started looking after her.

For the first time in almost five years our home had no Dino presence last night. It was lonely, but not as forsaken had it been if we had not taken steps to get care for our little dinosaur. In a way it was good, I could be more productive about the home than I had been for years, and the place is now spotless. I was also delighted for the help and support provided by my sister and friends as I gave a tearful, running commentary of events.

I’m about to head off to visit Dino. We’re only allowed a 5 minute meeting, and I hope to do it again tomorrow, all circumstances permitting. I’m trying to remain grounded. Her chances of recovery are perilously low. But at the clinic, she has that chance. With us, she doesn’t. And that’s why I keep praying.

Otherwise, the week hasn’t presented much that warranted seeking divine assistance. We were busy as hell again and I stumbled through work, loving what I am doing and giving it my best, but also learning that I need to be a better teammate.

On the sole day that I made it into the office (with my own medical treatment requirements preventing me from making it on our second anchor day), I was blessed with amazing skies that reflected incredibly on the skyscrapers around Tokyo Station.

My cycling volume in July was also my best in a few years, which allowed me to catch up with the target of averaging at least 1,000 kilometers per month on the bike after I fell behind in February and never caught up. It has been hard for various reasons including commuting, weather and the infected finger that has plagued me since April (almost simultaneously with Dino’s poor health).

Even though it may not work, I will keep praying again today. I hope it will lead to some improvement for my little feathered friend and that she will be able to come home again soon to enjoy life here. (Knowing my luck, I’ll probably end up running around madly, speaking in tongues because of all the digs I had at Americunts.)

** Also not a spelling mistake. Like emperors rule empires and kings rule kingdoms, the United States has its Dicktator.

* Not a spelling mistake. The cunt is a Dick.