“Don’t hurt it because it’s Jesus’ bird.”

So says my niece, her face pressing on the wire cage. She comes to our house with her father with that eager look that reminds you of prairie puppies released to the, well, prairie. The niece, barely six, goes straight to my birdcage and admires the bird. The bird is a jologs sparrow that, in more posh circumstances, will be worth nothing. But the niece is so happy she’s making babytalk and dishing out to my little sister one clever hypothetical question: What if it’s my birthday today and I ask for this bird as a gift? My little sister is speechless and looks at me.

I had been so guilty looking at the empty cage after its former occupant, a martinez, died of pneumonia and boredom. The martinez, anyway, was supposed to be able to talk but it couldn’t, not even a single human syllable. When I realized it couldn’t talk I got bored with it and it got bored with me and then the bird decided to finally leave this boring world.

So I bought the jologs sparrow from an ambulant vendor who also sold colored/painted ducklings and quails and 10-year-old, frayed-on-the-edges GI Joe action figures to rid myself of the guilt of looking at the empty cage. I asked for a sparrow with neon green feathers because why in hell was he selling pink ducklings and blue quails while the sparrows were left alone with their boring gray-brown coat? The vendor said buy my pink ducklings. I said I want sparrows. The vendor said buy my blue quails. I said I want the goddamn sparrows. I don’t have neon green sparrows, the vendor said, but you can do the painting yourself, it’s easy and I can teach you. I said never mind and bought the bird.

Now this little niece who rarely comes to our house declares her unspeakable intention to have my little birdie. Kuya, she’s asking for the bird, my sister says.

“You can’t have this. I’ve sentenced it to die,” I say just to imply there are things in heaven and earth she can never have, and to annoy her, I poke the cage with my pen and say, in the way all those maniacs in Hollywood B-movies scream, “Die! Die! Die!”

My little niece screams and proceeds to jesusify the bird: “It’s Jesus’ bird and now you’re dead because you’re trying to hurt Jesus’ bird. A lightning will strike you.” She tells me I’m a bad, bad, bad person and I won’t go to heaven for trying to kill, kill, kill Jesus’ little birdie. I’m so stunned with her handing me eternal damnation that I gape at her and say, Actually, there is no God. She looks at me and says You’re Lucifer. There is no Lucifer, too, I say. And to punctuate it, I laugh with a mad gleam in my eyes. This time she backs off a few steps; now she’s convinced if I am not Lucifer, I must be something worse. I must have created Hell itself.

My little sister, so used to my antics, just giggles and tells the niece it’s all right, that I’m just kidding. But the niece is now so frightened she clings to her father’s shirt and tries to hide and repeatedly says He’s Lucifer! He’s Lucifer!

When they’re gone, I tell my little sister There’s no God. She just laughs and laughs. I say, No, seriously, there is no God. She laughs and says Who cares? I’m stunned. She’s 11 years old and she’s a genius.

As for the bird, it died three days later of pneumonia and boredom.

JB also blogs about health anti-aging issues at L carnitine supplements and Acetyl L carnitine.