Once upon a time a benevolent uncle gave me a gift. A parrot. A green parrot, thought to be a double yellow headed Amazon. The reason for this generous gift came about because of the parrot's hatred for Uncle Bill. Well, wouldn't you go off someone who let a broom fall on you? Parrots don't like being knocked about.So I acquired this parrot and loved it at first sight. He was called Sally but please don't ask why a bloke parrot was given a female name. He came complete with huge cage attached to a trolley so he could be wheeled about. It had a cover that fitted most of the cage and lots of bells and things to play with.
This he and she business confuses even me so please forgive me if in the process of telling this tale I slip into the wrong gender.
Sally adapted quickly and was an amazing mimic. She had my voice off to a fine art in no time at all. The cat, named Lee, was demented when she (yes, she WAS a she) answered my call only to find she'd been summoned by the parrot. 'Leee-eeee,' called Sally, exactly as I did. And Oh my, did I get fed-up when she did her whistling kettle impersonation whenever she heard me fill the kettle.
Telephones were her favourite things to imitate. except when the real thing rang ... that was the summons for her to start chattering. While I tried to hear what the caller said Sally would rush up and down her perch chattering - in my voice - while I grew steadily demented. Eventually I would yell 'HANG ON WHILE I KILL THE PARROT'. Putting down phone, rushing to cage, slinging on cover, twirling trolley so that she faced the wall.
Ha, did I forget she could move about?
Yes, every time.
On my way back to the phone she would bend low, put beak through cage, lift up cover and say 'What's the matter' in that wheedling sort of voice she picked up from God only knows where.
Of course, she was allowed out of the cage. In fact, mostly out than in. She liked to be fed walnuts and grapes while she was outside, although I soon learned to ban walnuts when I found numerous bits of nut trodden into the carpet. Grapes were okay. She would sit on my shoulder to eat those ... on a pad, in case of juice marks.
Her favourite game was Throw the Matchbox. She would run up and down the top of the fire surround waiting for me to place an empty box on the tiles. Hysterically waiting! Squawking at the top of her/my voice, or so it seemed! Did I squawk, I used to wonder. Anyway, she would squeal as she dived for the box and hoot with joy as she threw it on the floor so I could have the dubious pleasure of picking it up. It was all very entertaining.
However! Whenever young son was home from school Sally went into wary mode. Jon was in wary mode as well. I thought he was transmitting his fear to the bird ... having completely forgotten the sustained injury that prompted uncle to give her away. Jon persevered, using the matchbox game to pacify the parrot. But not for long.
One evening, while I was washing crocks in the kitchen, I heard a scream. Oh My God. Rushed into lounge to find Jon with blood running down his face. Oh My God, not his eyes
Parrot was on the shelf. I swiped at her, knocked her to the floor. Grabbed Jon, dragged him out and shut parrot in the room on its own. Off to Emergencies which luckily was just up the road. Later learned that the bird had been on top of the door and had swooped on Jon as he was about to go through. You could see the claw marks on his cheeks.
The hospital nurses said they'd never had anyone in with a parrot bite before which made Jon feel a bit of a hero. He was okay, the beak had missed his eyes, thank the Lord.
Of course the parrot had to go. And it went rather quickly to a neighbour who had no man in the house. Well, you can't be too careful with parrots with long memories.
It was a long time before I had a yen for another bird. This time I bought a cockatiel, a white one called Chalky. She (haha) couldn't talk so I took the challenge and started to teach her. Using a tape recording of my voice (!) I played it through the night when the room was dark. By morning she would be repeating the phrase she'd heard. Once a week I would give her a different recording until eventually she could recite Pop Goes the Weasel without a hitch.I was thrilled with her progress. So was my guy. He loved to clean the cage while she sat on his shoulder. Until one day he put her back in and let the cage door slam on her foot. Thereafter, every time HE entered the room SHE would attack him.
The local zoo was pleased to add Chalky to their collection. This is proof, I think, that birds have exceptionally long memories.
