Few people know that birds are ever sick to their stomachs. Dewey had been in the habit of eating a little shaved hickory-nut, that was put in a half-shell and kept in a dish on the back parlour table. When he came down-stairs, he would usually take a taste, and it seemed to agree with him. For a change one day, I gave him some chestnut, and when I came in the room a little later, I found him huddled up in a corner, trying to go to sleep. As soon as I saw him, I knew he was not well, for he never acted that way in the daytime. I put him back in his cage, and sat down beside him. He would close his eyes and open his bill, and I thought he was dying until all of a sudden he opened his bill very wide, and out came the chestnut in a lump half an inch long and one-quarter wide.
My writing-desk was a favourite place of his. He would get into the drawers, pigeonholes, and ink, and pictures and all sorts of small things he would throw on the floor. Once he stole several dimes and pennies, and he could lift a silver dollar, and often would carry a coffee-spoon all about the room, so you see he had a very strong bill.
If anything was lost, I always blamed it on Dewey. One day I looked high and low for my thimble. I asked Dewey where it was; he pretended not to hear me, but, as I was going into my dressing-room, he dropped it down on my head from the top of the portière. He would often perch on a basket on top of the bookcase in the writing-room. One day I left a new white veil there, and when I went to look for it, I found Dewey had improved it greatly in his own estimation. There were about ten little holes right in the front of it, some round and some star shaped.
As he grew older, he would not sleep in his cage. For a few nights he insisted on sleeping on the brass rod at the head of the bed, then changed to the top of the curtain, where I put a piece of soft flannel over some cotton on the ledge and on the wall, so he would not take cold. If it was very cold, he would go behind the frill of the curtain out of every one’s sight, but, if it was warm, he would turn around so his tail would hang over the outside. When I would come in in the evening, he would open his eyes and nod to me, and, if not too sleepy, would come down and sit on my hand. He would never chirp or peep, and when he hid and heard me call, “Dewey, Dewey,” he would not answer, but would fly down on my head, shoulder, or hand.
Taffy often would get very angry with him, and sometimes I know he felt like killing him. Dewey would wake up early in the morning, and take his exercise by flying back and forth from a picture on one side of the room to the head of the bed. When Taffy was on the foot of it, he would fly very low, almost touching him with his wings, as much as to say: “You lazy cat, why don’t you wake up and hear the little birds sing to God Almighty? Why don’t you wake up?” Taffy would reply in words of his own that are not used in polite society, and the next thing I would see his tail disappearing around the corner of the door.
Before Dewey went to sleep at night, he would exercise again. One afternoon Taffy was trying to take a nap in a chair in the back parlour. Dewey kept flying over him, making a whizzing sound with his wings. When Taffy could endure it no longer, he went into the writing-room and sat down by me. Dewey came in and perched on the table to have a little luncheon. Taffy stood up on his hind legs, reached out a velvet paw, and gave Dewey such a slap he fell on to the floor. The bird was not hurt in the least, but flew up on the picture, and seemed to laugh at the punishment and scolding Mr. Taffy got. Taffy did not take his punishment with the best of grace, and there were many naughty words he said, while he scratched and bit, but at last he was conquered, and after that always behaved like a little gentleman toward Dewey.
The first time he saw the snow, Dewey seemed wild with delight, and flew to the window, trying to catch the pretty white flakes, but when he heard sleigh-bells, they seemed to strike terror to his heart, as I suppose he thought a whole army of cats was coming, as all he knew about bells were those on Taffy’s collar.
At one time I was ill, and had to send for a physician whom Dewey had never seen. When the doctor came up-stairs, Dewey hid behind the curtain, watching him intently as he fixed the white powder in a paper. When the doctor laid it on the table, down swooped Dewey, grabbed it, and flew with it to his cage. My mother at this time was ill for many weeks, and it kept Dewey busy, as he would carry off all her sleeping powders. One day he put them behind her bed, evidently thinking that there they would not taste so badly and do her just as much good. He would always watch the doctor intently, as he mixed the medicine, and Dewey seemed to think it great fun peering into the tiny little bottles in the medicine-case. He would stand on the ends of his toes and crane his neck to watch him drop the medicine into the tumblers.
Dewey’s end came at last, however, in a tragic manner. Some Christmas roses were brought in to me one day, and they looked so tempting to Dewey that he took several bites from them, and the next day took some more. He acted queer after that, and kept opening his bill. I thought he had something in his throat, and gave him some water, which seemed to help him for the time being. The next afternoon I found him panting on the floor. I took him to an open window, gave him some wine, and the attack seemed to pass, and apparently he was as well as ever when I went down to dinner that night. When I returned to my room late in the evening, there was no bird to greet me from the curtain. I looked on the floor, and there lay my darling Dewey stiff and cold.