This is an endearing tale of a bird that had a soul. For us it is about love and how life demands both acceptance and surrender.
When folks in the Pioneer Valley used to see me strolling down Pleasant Street with a white bird perched happily on my right shoulder, they would do double takes or stop.
Clyde would raise her crest, fluff out her feathers, and give a light-hearted, “Hi Clyde!” and they would laugh, look surprised, or say “Hi Clyde!” back.
But Then the FAQ’s would inevitably start up…. When faced with the conundrum of what to say to a human, donning a bird (or, what to say to a bird, with a human underfoot) people seem to be at a loss after the introduction.
“Is that your bird?”
“No, I’m her human.”
“Can she think?” “Does she feel?”
“I don’t know, why don’t you ask her?”
“Is that bird real?”
Deadpan, “NO.” or, “Are YOU?”
OK; so maybe you have to be another pet-co-dependent to understand why I would get uppity.
Well, for one thing, I can attest to the findings that parrots understand and use language appropriately. And they are extraordinarily attuned to their environment and the feelings of people and animals around them. For another thing, I didn’t want Clyde to be any more “othered” than she’d been during her former life behind bars: before I’d rescued her, she’d done 20 years for the crime of being wild.
Once Clyde burst into my life, she began a cute but devastating take-over. Yet I simply couldn’t pass her on to someone who would again abandon her. So, being both smitten and anxious, like anyone newly involved, I opted for the well-worn path of denial.
Clyde played her part in this dysfunctional relationship. As “Frog Princess”, she demanded (and was granted) a seat by my plate and an occasional spot beneath my bed-covers.
And, like most couples, we began having problems– particularly when I refused certain of her affections. First offense involved my rejecting her efforts to feed me. In avian social morays, regurgitating into your beloved’s mouth is a high honor
Besides being a “hopeless romantic”, Clyde was an egregious entertainer. Once, Gershon, an actor friend who Clyde sometimes let me “borrow”, included her in a comic rendition of Elton John’s, “Crocodile Rock”. For “Cockatoo Rock,” Gershon dressed in feather boas and danced as he sang. Clyde perched on his shoulder and strutted, talked and turned in accordance.
When the act ended, Clyde proceeded to ‘bar-hop’: bounding up and down the counter and onto the welcoming shoulders of the line of people, seated there, punctuating each pounce with a victorious little squawk.
Overall, Clyde was a hit–although some people nearly spilled their drinks.
However, there is always someone who is afraid of wild winged beings, be they angels or birds (and as far as I’m concerned, there is not much difference). And when such a soul cried out drunkenly, “Oh no, a bird!” I just couldn’t resist cracking, “It’s OK, I can protect her from you!”
Of course, my attitude didn’t set a good example to Clyde, who always tried to insure that people knew she was an “insider. If ignored, she’d fly to the highest place possible, puff out her chest, spread her wings widely, and let out a screech that was meant to travel a mile in her native Australian rainforest. “I am Queen and if you don’t show reverence, I’ll have you for dinner!”
My mother, who eventually stopped visiting, wouldn’t cow-tow, but would cover her ears, wince, and complain, “She’s so RUDE!” Most visitors didn’t usually return to my home. Nor did they care, when I’d explain miserably that Clyde simply wanted to be included. They didn’t feel guilty when I’d point out that they’d failed to return her greeting of “Hi Clyde”. They didn’t repent after learning that my “child” was as needing and deserving of love as any developing two-year-old. (However, parrots stay ‘two’ for as much as 80 long years. Of course I left that tidbit out.)
They turned to stone when I tried explaining that she didn’t know that screaming didn’t endear people to her.
To be continued next week
Tova
