The Lifespan Debates: A Parliamentary Inquiry into Avian Longevity
The Lifespan Debates: A Parliamentary Inquiry into Avian Longevity
The shattered window had been boarded up. The king parrot had been placed in a temporary cage procured from the paediatric ward (donated by a child who had been promised a new one). Lady Gaga had been propped up on pillows, her IV drip still running, her sunglasses back on her face despite the fact that the room was dimly lit and there was no paparazzi present.
And the argument had begun.
It started innocently enough. Dr. Alistair Finch, still clutching his stack of papers, had
positioned himself at the foot of Lady Gaga's bed like a barrister addressing a jury.
"The king parrot," he announced, "can live for up to thirty years in captivity. Thirty years. That's longer than most celebrities stay famous."
"I resent that," Lady Gaga murmured from the bed.
"It's not an insult," Alistair said. "It's a statistical observation. The average pop star's relevance lasts approximately seven years. The king parrot outlasts them all. It's a metabolic marvel."
"Thirty years?" Benny said, frowning. "That seems high. I thought it was more like twenty."
"Twenty-five to thirty," Alistair corrected. "In optimal conditions. With proper nutrition. Which, for a king parrot, means seeds, fruits, nuts, and the occasional biscuit stolen from an intern."
Dr. Timothy Pratt, who had been summoned from the morgue to explain the biscuit incident to hospital administration, raised his hand nervously. "I didn't know biscuits were bad for them. I thought I was being helpful."
"You fed a king parrot a digestive biscuit during a gallbladder removal," Nurse Gladys said flatly. "You were not being helpful. You were being a menace."
"The parrot seemed to enjoy it," Timothy said weakly.
"The parrot also seems to enjoy shattering windows and landing on surgical lights," Gladys replied. "That doesn't make it acceptable behaviour."
Kevin, from his temporary cage, screeched in what sounded suspiciously like agreement.
"Thirty years," Lady Gaga said slowly, as if tasting the words. "That's a long time. I've had albums that didn't last thirty days."
"The king parrot is a commitment," Alistair said. "It's not a one-hit wonder. It's a legacy artist. It's the Rolling Stones of the avian world."
"I thought the Rolling Stones were the Rolling Stones of the avian world," Benny said.
"No," Alistair said firmly. "The Rolling Stones are the king parrots of the human world. There's a difference."
"There is no difference," Gladys said. "You're just saying words."
"I'm saying scientific words," Alistair retorted. "Which is more than you've done this entire conversation."
"I've been standing here wondering why I didn't become a florist," Gladys said.
"Thirty years," Lady Gaga repeated, still fixated on the number. "That's longer than my last three relationships combined."
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"The king parrot mates for life," Alistair said. "Or at least, for a significant portion of it. They're devoted. They're loyal. They're everything a celebrity marriage isn't."
"Are you insulting my marriages?" Lady Gaga asked, her eyebrows rising above her sunglasses.
"I'm insulting the institution of celebrity marriage in general," Alistair said. "Not you specifically. You're a king parrot. You're above such things."
"I'm a what now?"
"A king parrot. Metaphorically. Metabolically. Spiritually."
"I think I need more fluids," Lady Gaga said, reaching for her IV.
But the argument was not finished. In fact, it was only just beginning.
"Alright," Benny said, holding up his hands. "Fine. King parrots live thirty years. But what about the other birds? What about lorikeets? What about cockatoos? What about rosellas? If we're going to have this debate — and apparently we are, despite all evidence suggesting we shouldn't — let's have it properly."
"Lorikeets," Alistair said immediately, "live for approximately ten to fifteen years in captivity. They're the punk rockers of the avian world. Bright, chaotic, short-lived, and prone to screaming at inappropriate moments."
"That's not fair," Lady Gaga said. "Punk rockers can live a long time. Iggy Pop is still alive."
"Iggy Pop is not a lorikeet," Alistair said. "Iggy Pop is a cockatoo. Obviously."
"Obviously," Benny repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "How could we have missed that?"
"Cockatoos," Alistair continued, ignoring him, "can live for forty to sixty years. Some have been known to reach seventy. They're the marathon runners of the bird world. They're the ones who outlast everyone. They're the Mick Jaggers of avian longevity."
"I thought Mick Jagger was a king parrot," Benny said.
"Mick Jagger is a cockatoo," Alistair said firmly. "Keith Richards is a sulphur-crested cockatoo who has somehow defied death itself. There's a difference."
"There is no difference," Gladys said again. "You're just assigning birds to celebrities based on vibes."
"Vibes are a valid scientific metric," Alistair said.
"They are not," Gladys said.
"Rosellas," Alistair pressed on, "live for approximately fifteen to twenty years. They're the indie darlings of the bird world. Beautiful, underappreciated, and prone to sudden, unexpected popularity."
"Like Florence Welch," Lady Gaga offered.
"Exactly like Florence Welch," Alistair agreed. "You understand."
"I understand that you're insane," Lady Gaga said. "But I'm also dehydrated and possibly hallucinating, so I'm going along with it."
"The cockatoo," Alistair said, warming to his theme, "is the true champion of avian lifespan. Forty to sixty years. Sometimes seventy. They're the ones who see empires rise and fall. They're the ones who remember when phones had cords. They're the ones who will be here when the rest of us are dust."
"That's beautiful," Timothy said, wiping a tear from his eye.
"You're crying," Gladys observed.
"I'm emotionally invested," Timothy said. "I fed one a biscuit. I feel a connection."
"You fed one a biscuit and now you're crying about its lifespan," Gladys said. "This is why you were reassigned to the morgue."
"The morgue doesn't have birds," Timothy said mournfully.
"Exactly," Gladys said. "That was the point."
"But what about the lorikeets?" Lady Gaga asked, surprisingly engaged for someone who had been unconscious twenty minutes earlier. "You said ten to fifteen years. That seems short."
"Lorikeets burn bright and fast," Alistair said. "They're the Amy Winehouses of the bird world. Tragically beautiful. Prone to self-destruction. But when they're here, they're here. They're fully present. They're fully alive."
"Amy Winehouse was not a lorikeet," Benny said.
"She was absolutely a lorikeet," Alistair insisted. "The hair alone."
"Can we get back to the king parrot?" Lady Gaga asked. "I was enjoying that part."
"The king parrot," Alistair said, "is the aristocrat of the bird world. Thirty years. Regal. Beautiful. Prone to demanding attention and then biting the hand that feeds it."
"That sounds familiar," Benny muttered.
"Are you comparing me to a bird that bites?" Lady Gaga asked.
"I'm comparing you to a bird that knows what it wants," Alistair said smoothly. "There's a difference."
"There is no difference," Gladys said for the third time. "You're just saying things."
"The king parrot," Alistair continued, undeterred, "is a symbol of endurance. Of resilience. Of the ability to survive in a world that doesn't always appreciate you. It's a survivor. It's a fighter. It's—"
"It's a bird," Benny interrupted. "It's just a bird."
"It's never just a bird," Alistair said, his voice rising. "It's a statement. It's a philosophy. It's a way of life."
"It's a creature that pooped on my surgical cap," Dr. Helena Voss said, appearing in the doorway with the fury of a woman who had been waiting three days to confront her nemesis. "And I want it removed from this hospital immediately."
"Kevin stays," Lady Gaga said, sitting up slightly. "He's my emotional support parrot."
"He's not a registered emotional support animal," Voss said.
"He is now," Lady Gaga said. "I'm registering him."
"You can't just—"
"I'm Lady Gaga. I can do whatever I want."
The room fell silent. Even Kevin seemed impressed.
"Thirty years," Lady Gaga said, looking at the king parrot in his cage. "That's a long commitment."
"The longest," Alistair agreed.
"Longer than a cockatoo?"
"No, cockatoos live longer. But king parrots are more dramatic about it."
"I respect that," Lady Gaga said.
Gladys put her head in her hands for the second time that day.
And somewhere in the hospital garden, a cockatoo that had been listening through the broken window turned to a lorikeet and said, in the only way birds can communicate, "Did you hear that? We live longer. We're the real champions."
The lorikeet, who had a lifespan of ten to fifteen years and knew it, simply flew away.
It had better things to do than argue with a cockatoo.
But it would be back.
They always came back.
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