Chipper's Best

Best came first. Chipper, who was about the size of a large chicken nugget when we got him, came much later. Immediately, Best took him under his wing, literally. He’d perch on my knee and spread out his vibrant plumage, cooing “best boy” at him. It was the only thing Best could say. Which made complete sense, it was, after all, his name.

We called him Chipper because he was clumsy. For months, we’d just kept calling him “puppy” or “baby” never by an actual name because we couldn’t decide on one. I wanted to call him Ranger. My husband liked NASCAR, which I absolutely abhorred, my mother liked Prince, which was okay but it didn’t feel right, and my father-in-law suggested Dog, just Dog, which was an obvious no. And then, in Chipper-like fashion, he named himself. He’d finally learned where the back door was to go outside and potty, but the sliding glass door was a feat he hadn’t conquered yet. One Sunday afternoon, I was sorting out Best’s bird seed when Chipper had to go. He hadn’t mastered accidents yet either, so when Chipper ran towards the backdoor, we always ran with him. But at the same time that I drew back the curtain, in a Best-style, attention hogging tantrum, he kicked over the food bowl that I had left on the counter, which apparently sounds exactly like a glass door opening, sending Chipper charging head first into it and instantly chipping his tooth. I yelled at Best and cried for hours, hugging my dizzy puppy. I wanted to take him to the hospital, but my husband laughed at me and my mother said it wasn’t necessary. When I was finally done being angry and sad, my husband picked our puppy up and looked at him.

“He’s cuter with the missing tooth,” he said smiling at him. Which almost sent me spiraling again.

“It’s not missing, it’s chipped!” I whined, sniffing at them both. He just gave me an empathetic look and gave Chipper back to me, but for the next few weeks, he’d call him by the nickname “Chip” which my visiting aunt lengthened to “Chipper” which eventually stuck.

Chipper and Best were more like brothers than best friends. They did not always get along, in fact, on various occasions, they’d wounded one another. Best had a patch of feathers missing from his backend from where Chipper had ripped them out and they never grew back. Chipper had a small lump on his ear from where Best bit him. On many occasions, I’d considered sending one to go live with my sister, fearing the worst would happen one day. My husband would always shrug and remind me that they were brothers and fighting is what brothers do. According to him, if I separated them, they’d both go into a depressive state which would eventually take their lives anyway. Still, I had to be sure.

Chipper and Best have only been separated twice in their lives.

The first time they were separated, Chipper had just been fixed. I didn’t want to keep Best locked up in his cage all day, but I also didn’t want him to bother Chipper while he recovered, which he absolutely would do. So, I sent Chipper to spend the weekend with my sister. He went straight from the vet’s office to my sister’s house, so Best saw him leave, but he never saw him come back. He had a worrisome silence all that afternoon and into the early evening, but when we turned out the lights and covered his cage for bedtime, Best flew into a panicked rage shouting “best boy, best boy, best boy” over and over again. The only way to subdue my angry budgie was to stay up all night, holding him, reminding him that Chipper was coming back and that all was well. It was the longest night in both of our lives, and when the sun finally came up, Best finally dozed off. The plan was for Chipper to spend Thursday through Sunday at my sister’s. He came home that Friday morning. The two of them took a break from fighting then, for about a week. Turns out my husband was right: they really had missed each other.

The second time they were separated was about 9 years later. This bittersweet memory of my sweet beagle and rambunctious budgie is my favorite and most beloved memory of all time. But in the same fashion, it is my least favorite one to recall and, even now, I tear up remembering it.

The house dynamic had changed drastically in those 9 years. We’d moved out of our small, bottom-level apartment into a home with a large backyard Chipper could run around in. My husband had also quit his job and started a car part business in our garage, so he spent more days with Best on his shoulder, teaching him more phrases. I, on the other hand, had given birth to a beautiful and highly inquisitive little girl who was then 4 going on 5.

Both of our boys had grown significantly. Chipper was a full grown Beagle and all of his spots had come in their correct places. His chipped tooth was still there, but it was hardly noticeable anymore under his slightly sagging face. He was still energetic as ever, choosing to spend much of his time running laps in the yard or assaulting his chew toys, but he spent his slower paced evenings with his brother who was changing as well. Best would perch on Chipper’s head most evenings and the five of us would watch a movie or game show until my husband fell asleep. Then, we’d all turn in. Best had gotten in the habit of saying “Bye, Chipper” when he went to sleep as opposed to “goodnight” or at least addressing the rest of the room, but it was cute. I think if Chipper could talk, he would have told Best bye right back.

But not all of Best’s changes were for the better. While Chipper was getting bigger and stronger, Best seemed to be getting frailer and a bit more clumsy. He’d fallen off his swing a few times, so we took it out of the cage and gave him a low hanging branch instead. He’d also begun skipping meals. I could place his favorites in his dish, and he’d let it sit there until it went rotten. The most alarming change was what we could only describe as a seizure. He would sometimes stand in one place, frozen, until he fell over. Then he’d stand up like nothing happened. He didn’t enjoy flying as much either. I’d taken him to the vet a few times and each time they just said

“He’s getting old. He’ll be alright,”

I hated that answer. I knew he was getting old, he was about 11 years old by this time, which was average for the standard parakeet lifespan, but still very old for any household pet. Age just didn’t feel like an excuse for seizures and lack of interest in much of anything except sitting on Chipper’s head. I finally took him to another vet who found something different to say. She checked Best’s heart rate and asked,



“Has it always sounded like this?”

I shrugged. No one had ever mentioned his heart rate before, and I’d never listened myself. She used her pen to tap on the desk and show me what the average bird’s heart sounds like, versus what Best’s sounded like. His was about half the speed of the average bird’s. She made me promise not to be mad at the other vets for missing it— it was apparently an easy mistake to make—but I broke that promise the second I got out of the office and into my car. I cried for awhile before we drove off. I probably wouldn’t have been there so long, but Best, now used to my emotional outbursts, kept chirping “it’s okay, Mama,” at me, which made me cry harder.

How does one explain to a bird that it won’t be okay and he’s dying?

The only thing harder than explaining death to a bird is explaining it to a 5 year old. My husband and I sat up all night thinking of ways to do it before we decided that the truth would be the best option. She handled it well, I think. I’m not sure that she truly understood the concept, but it had been a long couple of days and I didn’t want to force the idea into her head. Though the process couldn’t be as simple explaining it to Chipper, my husband came up with a great idea that would work even better: we take Chipper and Best out for one last great day with one another. We’d get up really early and do it as a family, so we all had that memory, but the day was truly for our boys. We made a list of all of Chipper’s favorite places, since Best had never been anywhere except the vet and the backyard, and got a bird leash that would keep Best from being snatched away by some bigger bird. He loved his little leash-vest when we put it on him; he even did a little dance on top of Chipper’s head. It was the happiest he’d seemed in months.

Our first stop was the zoo. Chipper loved the zoo, particularly the peacocks that did not like him back. I was always worried he’d be pecked by one of them, but they just moved away from him and ignored his attempts to play. Best, however, liked another animal. He wasn’t fascinated by the caged animals, and I don’t blame him, they all look so sad. He, however, adored the petting zoo. The goats, in particular, were his favorite. He left my husband’s shoulder and flew over to a goat’s head, singing “I love you, I love you” over and over again. The goat didn’t seem to mind, but Chipper was quite jealous seeing his brother on the head of what looked like a much larger dog.

Best also enjoyed the attention he got from passersby. They would ask to pet his head and comment on how cute he was. To which I’d reply with,

“Say ‘thank you,’ Best”

And Best would reply with,

“Thank you, Best!” ensuing laughter and remarks on how smart he was.

We ate lunch there. Chipper had a hot dog with no bun and a few carrots. I had to cut it up into bite sized pieces for him, otherwise he’d try to scarf down the whole thing without chewing. My husband and daughter shared a chicken strip meal, I had a greek salad from the cafe and Best ate a slice of watermelon. Watermelon was a treat for him. I was always careful not to give it to him too frequently because of the high sugar content, but he loved it, especially the seeds, which made a soothing crunching noise in his beak.

We stayed for a couple hours more and went to the park from there, where Chipper taught Best to catch a frisbee. Watching Best fly off leash like that terrified me, but I didn’t want to spoil the outing by telling them no. Besides, he was eager to fly again and what sort of monster stops a bird from flying? The frisbee was far too big for Best to catch, so while my daughter and I threw the real frisbee for Chipper, my husband threw a quarter for Best. He’d flown faster than either of us had ever seen, catching the quarter before it hit the ground. But it was clear he’d spent far too long working with my husband, because every time he returned the quarter he’d say, “Have a nice day!” thinking he was giving back change. We stayed there for about an hour or so, Chipper tiring out first and opting to lay on my leg instead of playing. He was closely followed by my daughter who had abandoned her father and bird for a Motts juice box that was in my purse. We had to drag the last two from their rousing quarter “frisbee” game, reminding them that we had one last stop that they’d both enjoy. It was hard to ask them to stop playing, especially Best, who hadn’t enjoyed anything in weeks, but I think they would have spent the rest of their lives in that game, if we’d let them.



Our last stop was the lake. Chipper had been there once as a puppy and I was sure he didn’t remember much about it as an old man, but it was a beautiful place to sit and watch the sunset. It was a hidden area, located right behind a thicket, so spotting deer and other woodland creatures take a drink from the small, but flowing, waterfall was common. The cool waters were clear and ideal for wading, so with Best on my shoulder, my daughter on my hip, my husband’s hand interlocked in mine and Chipper at my husband’s heels, we waded as a family. We splashed around for a bit, Best, who loved being in water, playfully screaming in my ear the entire time. Chipper dawned his “happy puppy” dance, standing on two feet and waddling side to side in the water. My daughter learned to swim that day. She’d been in classes since infancy, but that day she perfected it. She’d shouted, “look Mommy!”

To which Best enthusiastically chimed, “look Mommy, look Mommy,” over and over again. 



My husband was monitoring her paddling in the shallow waters while Chipper circled around her, presumably, showing her how to doggy paddle correctly.

Best and Chipper had their first ice cream cones that day. The ice cream truck that drove through the main road, on the outskirts of the lake, carried puppy ice cream and we figured what was good for the goose was good for the gander, or rather, what was good for the beagle was good for the budgie. It was essentially frozen pumpkin puree, lemon juice and milk that Best hated, (he said, and I quote, “ew”) but Chipper loved, gently pawing my leg for more once he’d finished.

That day, the sunset was more beautiful than I’d ever seen before. Rays of yellows, pinks and oranges shot out from behind the crisp white clouds as the sun touched the purple waters. I took pictures, but the beauty was incomparable: You had to see it in person. Best sang a little song then. I’d never heard him sing before, though I’d thought he had previously. It was a bit off pitch at first, but a beautiful song nonetheless. The other birds chimed in with him, singing back up and ad-libbing to his music. It was like something out of a dream.

“Can you hear that?” I’d whispered to my husband.

“What? Best? Yeah, he sings when he thinks we aren’t listening sometimes,” he responded nonchalantly.

“No, all of them,” I asked.

He listened for moment then smiled at me saying, “They’re birds, they do that,”

I knew he couldn’t hear what I was hearing, but that was okay. It was a privilege to hear Best sing in this sweet sort of way. He was perfectly in tune with the wind and the swaying trees and the flowing water and the birds around him. I was grateful no one else understood; no one but Chipper, who had leaned his head on my leg and was staring up at Best in a way I’d never seen before. He looked entranced. And the corners of his little mouth almost seemed turned up in a smile. His tail was wagging softly on beat to the song and together, my boy and I listened to the best singer in the world and his accompaniment.

My daughter, Chipper and Best all fell asleep together that day, with my daughter leaning against my husband’s backpack, Chipper laying on my daughter’s leg and Best in his favorite spot, nestled in the rolls on Chipper’s head. They formed a picture perfect moment as the last rays of light rested on their little heads and we said goodbye to the last bit of sun. We carried them gently to the car, trying not to wake them, but my daughter was the only one who stayed asleep. Chipper awoke instantly, unhappy to be being carried, and Best, never one to sleep through much movement, rested on my husband’s head the whole walk to the car. Though I hate to be cliche, it was the best day ever. For me, for my husband, maybe for my daughter, (I’ll ask her in a few years) and definitely for my boys.

I wanted to believe the doctors were were wrong. That he had several more years left in him. That they’d misheard his heartbeats and his demeanor was a result of something fixable. That after his display of energy and agility, he was healthier than ever, but we lost Best a few weeks later. We buried him in the backyard, which I was initially opposed to, fearing Chipper’s carnal nature would kick in and he would dig him up, but he never did. For a long time, he just sat by the mound of dirt that Best was buried under, refusing to come in or run around or play with any of his toys. We were all sad, but Chipper had it the worst. He was barely eating and he was shedding far more than normal. Days with Chipper seemed grayer and suddenly numbered. My husband had been proven right, again. Chipper had slipped into a depression I knew he could die from. Vets suggested walks, new toys, a change in his diet and puppy play dates, none of which worked. We even tried one of those companies that make toys in the likeness of a deceased pet, and that only half worked. Chipper would take the toy to bed with him, but he was still sad and not at all like himself.

Then my mom brought home Purdy. He heard her singing when she came through the door and his ears instantly perked up. I have to admit, she sounded so much like my Best, that my heart leapt a little too. Purdy came with her own cage, a gold one befitting her high class personality. She was a beautiful blue budgie, who sat on her swing singing a sweet song that filled the room for hours, but even with the door opened, she refused to come out. Chipper would watch her, even standing on his back legs to see her, but she was not interested in our dog the way Best was. After weeks of trying to play with her and only receiving back angry paw pecks when he got too close to the cage and tipped it a bit, Chipper gave up. Though he wasn’t completely back to normal, he was noticeably better than before. He no longer stared at Best’s empty cage or slept on his grave all day. He began eating normally and occasionally playing with his favorite toys again. Although now, the most special toy was the one that looked like Best, and he wouldn’t shake it around like the others, he would gently carry it place to place and cuddle it, though I know he wished it were the real version… we all did.

I, myself, had lost hope that Purdy would ever be a decent replacement bird. One could never replace Best, hence the name, but she was nothing like him, outside of their breed. She was sweet, but she sang all day, where Best mostly repeated his new words and squawked playfully at Chipper. Our house felt… pleasant… with her around. Typically pleasantness isn’t a bad thing, but it was unusual for us. We were used to the sounds of a little green bird and a small brown dog arguing or chasing one another or watching Wheel of Fortune together. In a way, we missed the noisiness of Best’s temper tantrums or the clanging of a bowl or toy he threw. The melodic sounds of a kind blue budgie who was just happy to be there were foreign to us. We wanted to re-home her, but that didn’t seem fair to either animal. Then one day she did something unusual. We were sitting down for a family movie. My husband and I were on the couch and my daughter was on the floor hugging Chipper. We always left the cage door open when we were in the living room, incase Purdy wanted to come join us. Until that evening, she never had. She’d always politely stopped singing, but during that time, she’d typically eat or nap or play with a toy. That evening however, she flew out of the cage and perched right on Chipper’s head. It startled him at first; it startled all of us. My husband had even raised the remote, thinking it was a bug that had flown in. But it was her, sitting pleasantly on Chipper’s head. When he realized what had happened he relaxed, daring not to move too much, and she nestled in, finally comfortable in her new home. Between his paws and under his chest sat the Best toy he never went anywhere without.

We still miss Best, I think we always will, but as we create new memories, the memories of our birdie will forever live on in our hearts. Purdy has become closest to my daughter and father-in-law, but Chipper is finally back to normal, and I think his plushie is who we have to thank. He takes his Best toy everywhere, so much so, that now, I can’t even introduce him by himself anymore. Though, I notice, that when I do introduce them, the corners of his little mouth upturn slightly with approval.

“This is Chipper,” I’ll say to strangers, “and this,” I’ll say motioning towards the toy gently resting in my sweet boy’s mouth, “is Chipper’s Best.”