Smart Animals

Dad says a trip to the pet store is always a quick pick-me-up. I don’t know if anything can cheer me up after hearing I have to get my tonsils out. No amount of ice cream or bribes of new video games could trick me into being happy about this. I’m a smart kid, I know I’m supposed to be scared. But I do like animals, too.

We walk into Mel’s Pet Shop with a jingle bell ringing as we open the door. Dad takes a deep breath in, and I do the same, inhaling the smell of straw from the hamster cages and poop from every animal in the cramped building. We shuffle past the stacks of dog food towering over me in the grid-like structure of the store. I can barely see any animals; only the tops of the cages in the back of the store are visible.

“Welcome in,” the store owner, Mr. Mel grunts monotonously, making me jump. His voice is rough and unenthused, and his face is blank and covered in wrinkly frown lines. He has thick, brown rectangle glasses that barely contrast his silver hair. “Bird seed is fifty percent off, and all dog accessories are ten dollars.”

Dad thanks him, and we shuffle through the store. Noticing my pout, he crouches down to me and points in front of us towards the bird cages, my favorite to go look at. I force a smile and drag my feet on the floor as I walk to the cage. Dad puts his calloused hands on my shoulders, guides me forward, and tells me to wait there as he grabs some wet food for our cat at home. I’m alone, and take a big sigh while I run my fingers up and down the cage.

“Hey, Buddy,” a gruff voice says around me. “Hands off the cage.”

I whip around, searching for the grumpy worker as my hands are glued in place. I rise on my toes to look at the checkout counter. The man is back there searching for something on his computer not acknowledging me at all. Was he talking to me?

“Little boy, I said, hands off the cage or my blue buddy Jerry over here will peck them off one by one,” the voice demands.

I pull my hands back, clutching them to my chest. I peer in closer to the cage, looking at the green and blue parakeets. One with a green body and a highlighter yellow face twists its head once I look at it.

“What? You’ve never talked to animals before?” the familiar voice asks.

I gasp and call out for Dad. He rushes to me from across the store as I point and jump at the cage. “It talks! It talks, Dad. The bird talked to me.”

Dad’s anxious face drops as he breathes out, grossly running his hands through his beard out of habit. “Max, that’s great, but you had me worried something was wrong.”

“No, Dad, he said words to me,” I try to explain.

“Some birds can do that, son. Crows can mimic humans so well that people think it’s another person talking to them. Birds are smart and super cool. I get why you like them so much.”

“Wait, just listen.” I twitter my fingers up and down the cage again, hoping to get a rise out of the birds.

“Kid, I’m warnin’ ya,” the bird says.

“Be cool,” the blue one (Jerry?) chimes in. “He can help us.”

I retract my arms, excitedly pointing at the cage again. “Did you hear that? He talked to me. They said things.”

Dad gives me a half-smile, crossing his arms. “Yeah, he sure did tweet back at you. You must have made a new friend. If we didn’t have a cat at home, I’d say we could take the little guy home.”

“You didn’t hear what he said,” I say, realizing how crazy I must look.

Dad takes a breath in, his green eyes filling with sympathy and maybe a little bit of embarrassment. “Why don’t you go look at the puppies? They’re adorable. I’ve still got to get food for Wynnie, but I’ll be back soon.”

I nod as Dad briskly walks back to the cat food aisle. He keeps an eye on me for as long as he can before he disappears into the stacks of food. I start to leave, and the green bird whistles to get my attention.

“It’s okay. He won’t believe you; most people don’t. But Max, that’s your name right? You’ve gotta help us. The store owner, Mel, doesn't treat us well. We don’t get enough food, he cleans our cages once a month, and don’t get me started on what he says to us when the customers are gone. We’re trying to get out, and we need your help.”

“Mr. Mel? He seems bored more than anything. And he’s like a billion years old. How bad could he be?” I ask.

“Watch this.”

The parakeet whistles so loudly and high-pitched that the dogs start to bark. Well, bark and babble about the noise. I look to the wall of dog cages next to the checkout counter and watch as Mr. Mel’s face twists with anger, probably making a new wrinkle. He stands up, grabs a broom, and smacks the metal barrier on the outside of the kennels.

“Shut up! I said, shut up, you dumb dogs,” he shouts.

I cringe at the response. “He does that to you guys? In front of customers? Okay, he has to be a bad guy. What can I do to help?”

“Thanks, kid. Go to the dog kennels and while Mel isn’t watching, open up the cage that has the chihuahua, Chica. We have a plan in place; all we need is a human with opposable thumbs to help us, and maybe open up the door on our way out,” the parakeet guides.

I nod, excited for my mission. I carefully tiptoe to the back of the store, watching Mr. Mel like a hawk through the food bag pillars. He glances at his watch, yawns, scratches his butt since he thinks no one is watching, then walks to the staff room. Now’s my time. I run to the cage and search up and down for Chica.

“Chica? Chica? Where’s Chica?” I whisper.

On the very top row, a golden chihuahua scratches her nails against the metal bars. I frown, one foot too short to reach the top. I spot a chair behind the counter and, as quietly as I can, grab it, standing up to unlock the kennel with an easy lift and pull of the rusting metal. Chica wags her tail at me, thanking me for my kindness with licks and kisses. I grab her, putting her under my arm as I climb down.

“Hey!” Mr. Mel shouts. He’s halfway out the staff door, staring at me. “Get your hands off her. You gotta buy her if you want to pet her, you thief.”

My eyes widen, and Chica tells me not to worry. I put her down, and she bares her teeth at Mr. Mel, who steps back as Chica lunges forward at him. He curses, shakily telling her to get back and trying to bargain his safety with treats. If I weren’t at the brink of a pet revolution, I’d be laughing at a grown, old man being scared of an eight-inch tall, small dog with a little pink bow on her collar. Chica barks at him, backing him into a corner and growling louder at him.

Dad runs over to the sound, concern painted on his face. “Max? What’s going on?”

Rustling comes from behind me. The other dogs in the kennels are slamming into the bars, inching towards their freedom. The sound of metal thuds fills the small building. I glance around, watching as the birds pick the locks with their beaks, the cats paw at the key until it unlocks, and the hamsters work together to climb on their wheels and pull each other out.

I smile brightly at the chaos, and Dad’s face is frozen in shock, muttering a fake curse. My glee is paused momentarily as I remember what the parakeet asked me to do as they all flee.

“Dad!” I shout and point towards the entrance. “Open the door.”

“What? No. That’s dangerous. They’ll get out,” he protests. “We need to get out of here before they do.”

“Trust me, they aren’t going to hurt us. They want to leave. The birds told me.”

Dad creases his forehead hesitantly, but runs to the entrance and opens the door nonetheless. Chica is still distracting Mr. Mel, and now more animals are ready to escape.

“You’re ready! He can’t hurt you now. Go! Escape! But stay off the black road. The sidewalk or the sky will be safer for you. Go, go, go!”

Like a commander of an army, as my arm raises towards the exit sign, all the doors to the cages open. The animals rush out in a flurry, all commotion sounding like a hundred windows shattering at once. The bigger animals run past Dad out the door. He presses himself tightly against the glass, dodging the creatures flying and running past.

The birds have an extra step in their plan. While Mr. Mel cowers in fear, all the parakeets fly over him, swoop down to peck at his hair, and poop on his head. Mr. Mel shouts, covering his head and shooing the birds away. Chica jumps forward, bites his ankle, and runs out of the store with the remaining animals. Mr. Mel cries out from the pain.

I laugh in the chaos, but quickly stop as Mr. Mel’s gaze locks on me. I run through the maze of food, grab Dad’s hand, and run us down the street into an alley where we can hide.

“All those animals,” Dad says, panting. “They just, left.”

“Escaped,” I correct. “Mr. Mel is a bad guy.”

“And the birds told you to do it?”

“I didn’t do much. They planned the escape themselves. Smart animals, right?”

Dad stares, occasionally blankly blinking at me. “Max, I think we’re banned from pet stores from now on.”