One Bird's Choice Read Online Free PDF

ceremony and had it framed. It’s printed in Latin. I can’t read Latin. Dad tells me it checks out.
    My diploma has proved useful. Not in terms of opening doors or expanding opportunities, but practically speaking. It rests against the foot of my bed, where I’ve been using it as a rack to dry laundry. It works best for socks and underwear. There are a pair of red boxers and some white tube socks hanging on it right now. They should be ready by morning.
    By early the next morning my melancholic spirit has given way to feelings of optimism. Predictably, they’re short-lived. I’m scheduled to meet with Laura, the producer at the radio station, at 9 a.m. Laura’s been busy and has already rescheduled our meeting twice. Downtown is a forty-five-minute drive from the farm. By 8:15 a.m. I’m alone in the kitchen, finishing the last of my barely edible dry white toast. I found the loaf in the freezer underneath a package of frozen chicken legs. I had to pry each squished piece apart with a knife before I could toast it. I call goodbye to Dad, who’s reading the paper in his study.
    “Where’s Mom?” I ask.
    “Mom? She’s out with Lucius, giving him breakfast.” He says it in a way that makes me feel stupid for even asking.
    Few people, apart from the odd ornithologist, would be able to tell you anything practical about guinea fowl. They likely wouldn’t know that guinea fowl are native to Africa and generally eat insects and seeds. I bet most are unfamiliar with the average guinea fowl’s appearance — how they resemble an unfortunate blend of frumpish partridge and diseased vulture, while their arched posture gives them an unflattering likeness to a stooped chicken. And I’m sure most among us are unaware that guinea fowl are communal birds.
    I have the unfair advantage of knowing intimately the physical characteristics and temperament of these creatures. I grew up with the domesticated flock that roamed the fields of Lilac Hill. They were the ideal animal to complement our cast of ducks, turkeys, chickens, dogs, cats, sheep, and bees. Our guinea fowl were the helmeted kind, complete with cranial growths that protruded skyward and resembled bony mohawks. Their tiny heads are the colour of bird droppings and their cheeks are a bright, raw-ground-beef red. They possess physical attributes that only a mother — my mother in particular — could love. After leaving home at nineteen, I rarely gave any thought to our brood of eccentric birds.
    Throughout my years at university, care packages would arrive from Lilac Hill that included updates on all of the animals. Tramp, the wise old dog, was starting to limp; Eric, the once burly ram, was eating less; and Cornelius, the rooster . . . well, it turned out that Cornelius was gay. But these detailed descriptions rarely included any mention of the guinea fowl. They were part of the physical landscape of the farm, more like the collection of lilac bushes than livestock. Then one day I received a solemn email from Dad explaining how careless drivers and hungry predators had over the years whittled away our flock, which was now down to two, a father–son duo. For more than a year the pair got along famously and could often be seen roaming around the meadows and orchard. “They seem happy,” Dad wrote, “because they still have each other.”
    And then one day, unexpectedly, the patriarch keeled over, twitched, and died in front of Dad while he was washing his truck. Our once replete flock of chirping fowl had been diminished to a single lonely bird.
    “Now that he’s alone he’ll probably just wander off,” Mom presumed wistfully on the phone one night, as I flipped through a magazine, only half listening. “I just feel bad; after all, they’re instinctually communal . . . Maybe he’ll bond with the sheep.”
    Several weeks later, the same night I called about my new job in Ottawa, Mom seemed glad but ultimately preoccupied. She was eager to share her own exciting