The Cat Sitter’s Cradle Read Online Free PDF

room. It had exploded.
     There were bits and pieces of tissue thrown about, a scattering of crumbs from what
     looked like a granola bar, a couple of lipstick cases, loose change, and a few fluffy
     chartreuse feathers. Proudly perched atop the handbag in all its multicolored glory
     was the resplendent quetzal, clutching a ring of keys in its bright yellow beak and
     eyeing us curiously.
    I said, “Joyce, that bird is not dead.”
    She said, “Nope. In fact, it is very much alive.”
    The bird cocked its head to one side, flicked the ring of keys onto the table, and
     chirped what sounded like a cheerful cool!
    Joyce said, “I was in the bedroom with Corina and the baby, and I thought I heard
     you out here unpacking things. I came out and there he was. He looks a little groggy,
     but other than that he seems perfectly fine. Do you think he got sick and just passed
     out?”
    “Could be something he ate,” I said, “or just plumb exhausted. Do you have a box or
     something we can put him in?”
    “I can do better than that. I have an old antique birdcage in the garage.”
    I kept an eye on the bird while Joyce went out to the garage. He did seem a little
     out of sorts. Occasionally his eyelids would droop and he’d list to one side for a
     split second, but since I’d never spent a lot of quality time with a resplendent quetzal,
     for all I knew that was perfectly normal behavior.
    Joyce returned with a beautiful handmade wire cage, about three feet tall. It had
     a gabled roof and several swinging perches, a couple of wooden feeding boxes, and
     a hinged door just big enough for the bird to fit through.
    “Now all we have to do is catch him,” Joyce said.
    I got down on my knees so my eyes weren’t higher than the bird’s and then shuffled
     slowly toward him. He hopped to the far end of the handbag and eyed me warily.
    “We could use the pool net,” Joyce said, “or I can throw a blanket over him and you
     grab him.”
    “I have a feeling it’s going to be a lot easier than that.”
    Looking away from the bird, I moved my arm toward him with my palm down and two fingers
     extended. He hopped right off the bag and onto my hand with a high-pitched cool! and started pecking at my watch.
    Joyce said, “Oh my gosh! Who are you, the bird whisperer?”
    “His flight feathers are clipped,” I said. “This little guy didn’t blow in with a
     hurricane. He’s somebody’s pet.”
    Joyce set the cage down on the coffee table and opened its little hinged door. Moving
     my hand as slowly as possible, I ferried the bird up to the cage and held him level
     with the doorway. He flicked his long tail a couple of times, looked at me with one
     eye and then the other, and then hopped right in without so much as a peep.
    There was a sharp intake of breath behind us, and we both started at the sound of
     it. I turned to see Corina standing in the doorway of the bedroom, her eyes as big
     as dinner plates and her jaw hanging wide open. She reached out to the door frame
     to steady herself.
    We both jumped up and helped her to the couch. I got a pillow to put behind her back,
     and Joyce went into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Corina was staring at the
     bird like it was a ghost.
    “El pájaro,” she said, shaking her head. “Ay dios mío.”
    Joyce came back with the water and handed it to Corina. “She must have seen it lying
     dead on the path.”
    “She probably thinks it’s a sign,” I said. “I know that’s what I’d be thinking if
     I were her.”
    I sat down on the couch next to her and pointed at the bird.
    “Uh, the bird … no es muerte. Es muy bueno! ”
    “Yes,” Corina said and nodded. “It is good.”
    “Joyce found it on the path this morning, uh … esta mañana, right before we heard the baby … antes de la niña. ”
    “Yes, yes,” Corina said. She couldn’t take her eyes off the bird.
    “It’s very exotic,” I said, trying to think of the Spanish word for rare. “It’s