The Weigh-In of the Wild: A Vet, a Vibe, and a Pitch
The Weigh-In of the Wild: A Vet, a Vibe, and a Very Awkward Pitch
The waiting room of the “Park Avenue Avian & Exotic Wellness Center” was not designed for the arrival of three global superstars and a trio of possibly-portly parrots. The receptionist, a young man with a nervous blink, had already spilled his coffee twice and was now simply holding the mug for emotional support.
Lady Gaga paced the linoleum floor, Sir Fluffington perched on her shoulder like a rainbow-hued epaulette. Catherine Zeta-Jones sat with regal composure, Reginald the king parrot nestled in a designer carrier on her lap. Rihanna had commandeered the reception desk’s spare chair, legs crossed, scrolling through her phone with the air of someone who had been promised a much better time than this.
“I’m telling you,” Gaga said, for the eleventh time, “they’re not overweight. They’re fluffy. It’s plumage. It’s aerodynamics.”
“Gaga,” Rihanna said without looking up, “Bartholomew has a neck that jiggles when he cackles. Birds are not supposed to have a jiggle-neck.”
Bartholomew, the cockatoo in question, was sitting in his carrier making a sound like a small, contented balloon. He did, in fairness, look like a pillow with opinions.
At last, a door swung open and out stepped Dr. Arnold Pemberton, DVM, a man whose enthusiasm vastly outpaced his social awareness. He wore a white coat, a bow tie patterned with tiny flamingos, and an expression of barely contained delight.
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“Lady Gaga! Catherine Zeta-Jones! And—” he squinted at Rihanna, “—the internet.”
“Hi,” Rihanna said flatly.
“Please, come in, come in! I’ve prepared the weighing station! It’s very sophisticated. It’s a scale.”
The examination room was a chaos of cages, charts, and one very prominent poster of a parrot with the caption “SQUAWK IF YOU LOVE METABOLISM.” Dr. Pemberton gestured grandly to a digital scale on the steel table.
“Alright! Who’s first?”
Sir Fluffington was placed upon the scale. It beeped. Dr. Pemberton’s eyebrows rose. “Well. That’s a lorikeet who’s been enjoying the artisanal seed, I see. He’s not obese, but he’s definitely… festive.”
“He’s festive,” Gaga repeated, vindicated. “Thank you.”
Reginald went next. The scale beeped again. Dr. Pemberton made a small, thoughtful noise. “He’s within range, but at the upper limit. A king parrot with a king-size appetite, I’d wager.”
Reginald puffed his chest, clearly taking this as a compliment.
Then came Bartholomew. The cockatoo stepped onto the scale with the gravity of a dignitary. The number flashed. Dr. Pemberton was silent for a long moment.
“Well?” Rihanna prompted.
“I’m going to be honest with you,” the vet said, removing his glasses. “Bartholomew is, medically speaking, a unit.”
“A unit?” Gaga cried.
“A unit,” Dr. Pemberton confirmed. “He is not merely overweight. He is architecturally significant. I recommend a diet, an exercise regimen, and perhaps a small support group.”
Bartholomew let out a low, mournful squawk, then immediately looked hopeful when Dr. Pemberton’s hand drifted toward a drawer that might have contained treats. It did not. The cockatoo’s crest flattened in betrayal.
“Now,” the vet said, pulling up a stool and leaning in with an unsettlingly eager grin, “while I have you all here, I’ve been workshopping some ideas. For your brand. Your avian brand.”
Gaga blinked. “My what?”
“Your bird-related musical endeavors! I’ve been following your careers—well, mostly yours, Lady Gaga, but also yours, Ms. Zeta-Jones, I have all your films, Chicago especially, I’ve seen it forty-one times—”
“Sorry, doctor,” Zeta-Jones said smoothly, holding up one elegant hand, “I’m Welsh.”
Dr. Pemberton froze mid-sentence, as though this were a riddle he had not yet solved. “I—of course. Right. Welsh. Understood.” He cleared his throat and turned back to Gaga with renewed vigor. “Anyway! Song ideas! Picture this: a soaring ballad called ‘Eggs Like These.’ It’s about self-acceptance. It’s about embracing your inner omelette.”
Gaga stared at him. “My inner what?”
“‘Eggs Like These,'” he repeated, humming a few bars. “It’s a power ballad. Big key change. Very A Star Is Born.”
“I’m going to stop you right there,” Gaga said.
But Dr. Pemberton was undeterred. He swiveled toward Rihanna. “And for you! A club banger. I’m calling it ‘Poultry in Motion.’ It’s about—”
“Stop,” Rihanna said.
“—it’s about a bird who discovers dance—”
“Stop,” Rihanna said, with the finality of a judge’s gavel.
Dr. Pemberton held up his hands. “Fine, fine! But I have one more, and this one’s a duet. Picture it: you two, together, singing ‘I Will Always Love You (But Please Stop Pooping on the Carpet).’ It’s a tribute to Whitney but with a very specific domestic frustration—”
“I’m Welsh,” Zeta-Jones said again, pleasantly, as though this explained everything.
“I know you’re Welsh!” Dr. Pemberton said, a note of desperation creeping in. “You’ve told me three times! I’m beginning to think it’s not about Wales at all!”
“It’s entirely about Wales,” she replied, sipping from a bottle of water she had produced from her handbag.
Dr. Pemberton turned back to the birds, his last hope. “What about you three? Any creative input? A little chirp? A hook?”
Bartholomew, still smarting from the absence of treats, turned his back and let out a sound that was unmistakably, deliberately, a raspberry. Sir Fluffington began preening. Reginald stared at the vet with the cold disdain of a monarch who had been kept waiting.
“Tough crowd,” Dr. Pemberton muttered.
Gaga scooped up Sir Fluffington and fixed the vet with a look. “Doctor. Are my birds healthy or not?”
He sighed, finally surrendering to professionalism. “They are healthy, Lady Gaga. Just… well-fed. Cut back on the macadamia nuts, add more vegetables, and make sure Bartholomew gets at least thirty minutes of treadmill time a day.”
“He already has a treadmill,” Gaga said.
“Of course he does.”
Rihanna stood, stretching. “Great. We’re done here. And Doc—” she paused at the door, turning back with a slow smile, “—’Poultry in Motion’ is the worst thing I’ve ever heard. And I’ve heard a man attempt to order a latte in a nightclub.”
Dr. Pemberton looked wounded, then, impossibly, hopeful. “So you’re saying there’s a chance you’d record it?”
“No.”
As the four of them filed out into the waiting room, Zeta-Jones turned back one last time. Dr. Pemberton’s face lit up.
“Doctor,” she said sweetly, “I’m Welsh.”
She closed the door. Dr. Pemberton stared at it for a long moment, then slumped into his chair and looked at Bartholomew’s chart.
“Architecturally significant,” he murmured to himself. “That’s a shame. That would’ve been a great song title.”
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