Gawain, the cockatiel perched on a dowel, ready to fly out the opened cage door. Cockatiels, finches, nightingales, a morning dove, and three loud parrots intoned their matins in our Greenwich Village loft. On August, 1989 they left the unit to make the move to the big old house we bought on Staten Island.
My wife’s father was a book collector and we also had an extensive library. Most of the books were the rewards of our own browsing. We published and printed poetry anthologies, poetry magazines and chapbooks. Books that were printed on a letter press, offset or photocopied. On moving day all our books were packed in cartons; and the bookshelves that housed volumes for twenty years were emptied.
Snooka was a small snapping spectacled amazon. He had a red brow, squawked loudly. Albird, a blue crown amazon, perched on my shoulder, showered with me, spreading his wings, dancing while getting wet, beside me in the tub.
Gawain, a yellow cheeked grey cockatiel walked across a large pizza to prune the whiskers of Xanadu, a marmalade cat. Sugar, a morning dove, walked across red and yellow tiles on the floor.
Gray and white cockatiels perched on blue cross beams, wire cages, and book cases. Small, lovebirds, parakeets, and soft seed feeding finches, stayed in their cages safe from the four house cats.
Tiffany, a gray cat with white paws, was one year old at the time of the move. Born on a New Jersey flower farm, Tiffany was a curious, friendly kitten, who came willingly into the cat carrier.
Jenny, a petit blonde cat with short fur and short legs, was unhappily yowling in a carrier.
Tom chased the animals around the loft. “This is hard and it’s going to take a long time,” he said. With a net on the end of a pole, he climbed over book cases.
The west wall of the loft was lined with portholes instead of windows. The portholes dated back to the Nineteenth Century when the building was a manufacturing site and our unit was occupied by ship chandlers. The portholes looked out to the roof of the adjoining townhouse. Our loft was a family residence and home to a small press poetry publishing program. Windows looked south to the World Trade Towers.
In the loft, the west wall had 9 foot tall industrial window. Overlooking Greenwich Street.
Our Miss Brooks, a blonde terrier mix, slept with us on the captain’s bed beneath a porthole. She was a timid dog. We met her at an animal shelter in Port Washington. She threw up on the trip home to the Village. She liked to dance on her hind legs like a circus dog; turning and turning in a circle. She was a stay at home dog. A blonde fizzy terrier mix, her loud barking kept intruders away. She had a billy goat beard and long facial hair. Our Miss Brooks stood on her hind legs and turned in circles. The world was turning around and around.
She was paper trained, because she was nervous walking in the streets. She cried. She whimpered, when we left her to go to work. She whined. She had her family in the loft, dancing in circles. That kept her going. If she could she might have said, “Leave me in the Village.” The little dog came with us to Staten Island. She got car sick as she sat with Barbara, while I drove out to the Island in the truck.
When Long Island farmers at the Gansevoort Green Market offered us the second turtle, Barbara took her in as companion for our turtle. The two box turtles moved with us; living through the decades of their long lives in a glass terrarium, with a constant grow light. They have outlived all other pets; and were still with us more than twenty years later; in a glass terrarium; getting salads in oyster shell bowls. Their beaks and nails grew long. He humped her for years; and pissed whenever I picked him up, letting go a stream.
The guinea pig and the rabbit would have more open space for running around in the new house. The rabbit and the pig, Nosey and Pigolino, were housed in a hutch of chicken wire and woodchips. They were buddies.
The small economy truck we rented was parked on Greenwich Street in front of our building. We filled it with our menagerie in cages and cat carriers. All was ready for our migration. Nothing would be left behind. All the animals and their possessions were transferable. Their nests. The flock.
New York City pedestrians stopped. They looked in the back of our open truck as it filled with caged birds, yowling and meowing cats in carrying cases, turtles, a guinea pig, rabbit and a yellow dog on a leash. Albird sat on the driver’s shoulder.
“Weird menagerie.”
“Curious zoo.”
“Are they friendly?”
“Will they be safe?”
“Where did they come from?”
“How many animals do you have?”
Barbara was embarrassed by their comments. We were transporting more than a hundred loudly squawking birds.
Nosey, the rabbit, peered out of a cat carrier.
Across Greenwich Street at the sanitation garage, the men were sweeping litter and fabric samples tossed by the fashion industry they served.
We drove west, rattling along on top of Jane Street’s old cobblestones. The doors were latched. Barbara worried we’d lose an animal. She feared they would be too upset by the ride.
We passed the Washington Street parking lots and garages. Left behind Westbeth, the old Bell Lab that was turned into artists’ housing on Bank Street; for which our loft had been the prototype.
We drove south to West 11th Street. The West Village Committee bookstore was next door to The White Horse Tavern. The garage where we parked our Samurai had been on W. 11th street.
Heavy traffic on West Street, passed piers and trees planted by the West Village Committee. We headed in the direction of Travelers’ red umbrella logo and the World Trade Towers.
We turned east on Canal Street and drove through Chinatown.
We crossed the Manhattan Bridge and found the ramp onto the Brooklyn Queens Expressway heading toward the Gowanus. Buses, cars, and trucks flowed past us. On a summer’s evening traffic, we crossed the Verazzano Narrows Bridge. Would our menagerie attract attention at the toll booth?
When we came upon the new house, a large Staten Island house built in 1903, we began the unpacking.
The pecking order changed in the new home. We had separate rooms; not spaces created by bookcases and drawers. The cockatiel flock had a room of its own. Their door was screened with chicken wire so air circulated. The door would keep the cats out. An occasional cat would sneak into the bird’s room, but it ran out once a squawk went up. The cats had more space to roam. They had been mousers in the loft and would have more opportunities in the house. We blocked open spaces in the basement, lest the little ones went exploring and got trapped.
The dog could exercise more. Now on her own Our Miss Brooks would climb the stairs.
Albert and Snooka’s cages were in separate rooms.
The rabbit ran around in the living room.
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