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The One-Eyed Bird That Never Sang

And how he found his voice

In another life, I worked in Human Services for over 10 years. During that time, I floated between different group homes for adults with developmental disabilities. I traveled all over several counties, helping out when staffing was low.

At one point, I was temporarily sent to work in a large residential facility that housed ten people with complex medical needs. It is there that I met a bird so sad and neglected he couldn’t even sing.

On my first day, I walked in prepared to empty ostomy bags, purée dinners, and carefully measure liquid nourishment for feeding tubes. That was the technical part of my work, not the part that kept me in a very underpaid career field. The part I loved was forming relationships with each of the home’s inhabitants.

This house was no different. The residents were wonderful. I loved going to work and spending my days with them. This story is in no way a reflection of those ten beautiful people, as they had nothing to do with the unfortunate circumstances I walked into.

As the days went by at my new job site, I started feeling sick when I left at the end of my shift. Not because any of the home’s inhabitants needed me there. I knew they were in good hands with the other staff who were loving and attentive toward them. I hated leaving because I couldn’t stop thinking about a one-eyed bird the staff called “Shithead” and left to rot in an old television stand in the living room.

I didn’t notice the parakeet the first few times I entered the home. He was set back in a small cage, hidden in a giant antique television stand in a deep cavern designed for those old-school clunky televisions.

It took me a while to realize the deflated squeaks I heard were coming from a sad little bird sitting in darkness.

What’s with the bird? I asked my supervisor, leaning in close to inspect the bird’s injured eye. The eye was sealed shut with a giant pink tumor bulging from the side of it.

“That’s Shithead. Someone gifted him to the house five years ago but no one here likes animals. Half the guys are terrified of him! Terrible gift. Look at that shitty eye of his!”

I knew very little about parakeets but imagined his living situation was nowhere near appropriate for the sickly-looking bird.

Shithead never sang or talked. He slumped his head and made the occasional raspy squawk when the house got too loud.

No one noticed the shriveled bird most of the time. It was easy to see how he was overlooked in his dark, forgotten cave. A coworker explained to me that they had to keep the bird tucked away because one of the residents kept getting into the cage and carrying him around by the neck. The cave was safer but not a happy existence.

Shithead was merely an overlooked piece of furniture to everyone who walked by his filthy, abandoned cage. There was so much work to be done in the home that there was simply no time to care for the lonely bird during work hours, not that the staff wanted to be bothered by the unwanted gift anyway.

When I asked who was in charge of cleaning the cage and buying bird food, my coworker shrugged. “Whoever remembers. But trust me, that bird can go a really long time without eating.”

Oh hell no.

I began buying the bird food and cleaning his cage after my 10-hour shift ended on the four days a week I was there. After a long weekend off work, I’d come back to find the bird had no food again and the cage was dirty.

It started eating away at me. My coworkers began making fun of me for taking the bird outside in his cage after my shift ended. We would sit in the sun and he would finally lift his head up and acknowledge the world around him. A prisoner exploring the prison grounds in his brief escape from solitary confinement.

My time at the house was a temporary arrangement until more staff could be sent in. During my last month there, I began to panic at the thought of the bird spending the rest of his days alone in the dark. I also worried about his eye and knew he needed medical care.

When I approached my supervisor about taking the bird to my vet to get his eye looked at, she laughed as if it were the most ridiculous request she’d ever heard. She agreed to let me take him on the condition that I did it on my own time and with my own money.

The job didn’t pay well so my funds were limited, but I agreed without an argument and set up the appointment. When I took the bird to my vet, I burst into tears explaining the situation.

My vet said he wasn’t sure what caused the infected eye or tumor but it could have been due to a lack of cleanliness or being in a stressful environment for so long. He volunteered to operate, free of charge. I cried again.

The day of the surgery I dropped Shithead off before work and spent my shift pacing nervously. How did you give a bird anesthesia? I pictured a teenie tiny bird mask. What would he dream about while he was under? Hopefully not his little cave.

When I went to get Shithead, I was told the surgery went perfectly. The tumor had been successfully removed. While the infection was gone from his eye, it still remained sealed shut and would likely stay that way for the rest of his life.

Regardless of the irreparable damage the infection had caused, the relief was obvious. He stopped scratching his head ferociously against the cage and moved with more grace as if he felt lighter.

Next came the hard part. I had to bring Shithead back to his “home.” I remember how sunny and warm the day was. How he made slight cooing noises as he soaked up the warmth of the sun he so rarely got to feel on his face.

Without a second thought, I made a decision that I still stand by to this day. I picked up the phone and called my supervisor, willing my voice to sound shakey.

Shithead didn’t survive the surgery. He’s dead. I did my best to fake a sniffle.

“Oh well. Bye, bye birdie,” My callous supervisor replied with a chuckle.

In the blink of an eye, Shithead was dead.

I decided to name the reborn bird “Gumby.” His green head and flexible movement reminded me of the clay animation character.

Now what to do with him?

I couldn’t keep him. My cat was scratching to get his paws on his new snack the second I brought Gumby through the door.

As fate would have it, I connected with a girl named Sophie through Craigslist who was specifically looking to rescue a parakeet. What are the odds? She already had three at home and knew how to care for them.

When I arrived at our meeting spot to deliver Gumby to his new owner, I was greeted by a shy young teenager and her mom.

As Sophie tucked Gumby safely in her car, her mom pulled me aside and thanked me. She explained that her daughter was bullied at school and suffered from a lot of anxiety. Sophie started rescuing birds the year before and it helped her mental health immensely.

I drove home that day with a tremendous sense of relief. Gumby would be well loved and in return, would add so much joy to Sophie’s life.

I worked at the home for a couple more weeks without one person mentioning the missing bird. It both angered me and reinforced my decision to steal Gumby and give him a chance to live happily.

One day, about a month after I had given Gumby to his new owner, I got a text message from Sophie. It contained a video clip of Gumby, sitting in his new cage right next to a giant window. He was singing in the sunlight to another bird that looked just like him.

The message was short and sweet:

“He’s in love. So am I!”

For the third time, I cried for that one-eyed bird. This time, tears of pure happiness. I may have been the one to break Gumby out of his prison, but Gumby and Sophie were the real heroes. Both of them came into each other’s lives at a time when they needed a friend desperately.

I didn’t hear from Sophie again after that, but I’m confident things worked out beautifully. Now, when I hear birds chirping, I’m reminded of the one-eyed bird who started out so defeated he couldn’t even sing and how he was given a second chance at life with a family who loved him. Now, that’s something worth singing about!

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