White Robed Ninjas and Pygmy Monsters

This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.

White Robed Ninjas and Pygmy Monsters

By Plot Roach

So my friend told me the other day that she’s had problems raising birds in her backyard. The quail drowned in the water feeder she set out for them, the chickens were too stupid to get out of the sun and died of heatstroke, and the ducks… Well, there was a problem with raccoons. All she found after the slaughter were duck heads and webbed feet. She felt terrible about it. “No matter what I do, they all end up dying.” she told me.

“But there has to be one bird on this planet that you can’t kill, or have die from city predators.” I told her. And I looked into it. Geese seemed too territorial, but they might give the damned raccoons a hard time for their dinner. Peacocks were never really known as a source of food, unless you count courtly feasts back in the middle ages. And swans…Who really wants to kill something that pretty, not to mention they’re like white robed ninjas out to rob you of your eyes if you get too close.

And then it came to me: pigeons. The low rent version of the pretty dove, yet not so pretty you couldn’t eat one if it came down to it. I researched them a bit, and we got a few books from the library to help us on our way. She sent off for a few breeding pairs (which I never knew that you could send through the mail) and we spent the weekend building a backyard birdhouse for them.

A week later, the package arrived. It was much smaller than we assumed it would be. And there were no air holes. When we opened it, there were six eggs, ensconced in bubble wrap and set into a package lined with dry ice.

Dry ice? I asked myself. Wouldn’t that kill off the birds inside? And what happened to getting six mature birds? Now we had to try and raise these chicks from eggs and hoped that they hatched to begin with. We read the note:

I was working on a new breed, and thought that I would pass on some of the better hybrids to you. I know that you ordered adults, but I think you will be more impressed with what I have sent you when you see them hatch (in about fourteen days). The young from these six eggs will mature in 28 days. No need to incubate in traditional manner. Just set each egg in separate nest and feed as you would a normal bird. I have not hatched this particular hybrid for myself yet, so please pass along some pictures and what you think when they reach maturity. Thanks.

Nothing else in the package, just the note and the cold eggs. We got them back to the house and followed the instructions, noting that the eggs were warm to the touch when we took them out of their dry ice lining. They heated up really fast if I just held one in my hand as well. What kind of birds are these? I asked myself. But if they made my friend happy, well… So be it. And if they could survive the cold long enough to hatch, maybe they might just survive the California heat and the ninja raccoons.

Not long after the package arrived, we got a note from the man who sent the eggs to us, stating that he decided to give up the hobby since his last batch of eggs were duds and the rest of his flock had to be destroyed over some bird flu. I hid the letter from my friend, if the eggs didn’t hatch, that was one thing. But I didn’t want her to obsess every minute over it in the meantime.

We waited the two weeks and by some miracle, every one of them hatched. But man, were they UGLY! Like someone bred a chicken to a buzzard. Big, bulbous heads on long, thin necks. Dumpy bodies with bat like, webbed wings. Only their eyes were pretty, with metallic hues that reminded me of semiprecious stones. And in those eyes, a certain intelligence that I hoped would mean that they wouldn’t drown in their water feeder, or get close enough to the edge of the wall for the raccoons to pull them through a hole.

As the month progressed, we watched them get bigger, but no more beautiful then when they first hatched. In fact, it seemed that they got uglier with each passing moment. The exposed patches of skin looked pebbled like an alligator’s hide. And they started to exude a type of funky musk that reminded me of my brother’s pet python just before it would shed its skin.

Toward the end of the month my friend called me at work, hysterical. “It’s happening again. I’m going to lose the hole flock!”

“Wow. Slow down, tell me what happened.”

“They’re pulling out all their feathers. All I’m seeing is dirty down and blood. At this rate, they’ll have cleaned themselves for the raccoons to eat by nightfall.”

“Relax.” I said, not really believing my own words. “I’m sure its something natural if they are all doing it.” But all I could think of was the time a roommate of mine had this mostly bald parrot. It kept pulling out its own feathers because it was born in the jungle somewhere and someone illegally shipped it to the United States to sell for a mint. The damned thing had to be sedated when it wasn’t already asleep and had to wear an itty bitty plastic collar like what you put on a dog or cat to keep it from licking at a wound.

I drove to her house after work, sure that they creatures would be dead by then and that I’d have to help her bag them up for the garbage. Maybe we’ll go out for a drink to help steady her nerves, I thought. But I didn’t have time to suggest such a thing as she ran out to meet me at my car.

“You’ll never believe it, not in a million years!” She said, grabbing my hand and pulling me to the backyard. I cringed, expecting a bloodbath, as I stumbled along behind her. True to her word, there were bits of whitish bloody fluff that rolled like miniature tumbleweeds across the dirt of the backyard. There was an ominous silence as we crept up to the birdhouse. I steeled myself for carnage as I peeked in. And met a beautiful pair of topaz eyes with matching colored scales looking back at me. It screeched, reminding me of the raptor calls I heard on one of those “Walking With Dinosaurs” movies I’ve seen on cable. And then it flew to the other side of the cage.

It Flew.

The veined bat wings came in handy after all, it seemed. The creatures had lost their dumpiness along with their baby down. And now what faced us in the cages were lithe little figures that my mind was too astonished to accept.

My friend walked into the cage and my heart leaped. Surely she would be torn to pieces by such monstrous, if miniature, creatures? But no, she offered a handful of feed in an open palm and one perched on her shoulder to partake of the treat. Once finished, it retained its perch on her and began to groom itself behind one wing.

“They’re all hand trained.” she said. “I’ve been feeding them by hand since they hatched because I wanted to be able to get the eggs out from under them once they grew up decided to mate on their own."  She giggled as the one on her shoulder nosed her for more treats, and she obliged. “I’m thinking of calling them pygmy dragons. What do you think?”

And all I could think was that the man who bred them and didn’t keep any for himself is going to be kicking himself when my friend takes her winged friends to the next bird show and sells them for millions.