Critters of Mossy Creek

by Deborah Smith

I guess you could say I was feeling sorry for myself as I peddled into town. I’d just turned the corner at South Bigelow Road when I heard a voice that would change my life.

  “Look out belooooowwww!”

  I had time to squeal to a stop, plant my feet on each side of the bike and look over my shoulder when a wind-storm of green and red feathers swooped down from the poplar tree hanging over the road and landed itself on my handlebars. I had to blink twice to believe it, but there it was.

  A parrot! A talking parrot!

  It was so beautiful! The bird fluffed and settled his bright feathers, stretching his wings and tail to display spots of red and yellow underneath the green. He wasn’t as big as some of the parrots they had down at the zoo in Atlanta. Those were called Macaws. I wondered what kind of parrot this could be? Luckily I was headed towards the library. I’ll bet I could figure it out there. Mamma wanted me to learn about taking care of another pet. Maybe the answer had landed right in my lap. Or at least on my handlebars.

  He then lifted one claw and cupped his face, scratching the light blue patch of feathers above his beak, as if he were thinking about what to do next. He turned his head left, then right and I followed his gaze, wondering what a parrot would be looking for in Mossy Creek. More importantly, who would be looking for him? Surely something this beautiful had to belong to someone. Secretly, though, I was already beginning to hope he didn’t belong to anyone.

  With a shake of his head, his crown of yellow and blue feathers ruffled and he nodded twice. “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.”

  “Excuse me?” I couldn’t believe it was actually talking to me, but sometimes you just have to go with things. Especially in Mossy Creek.

  Squawk. “Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

  Too funny! “You’re in Mossy Creek.” I wondered what else he could say. “Polly wanna cracker?” Not that I had a cracker, but couldn’t all parrots say that?

  He laughed instead with this full, wonderful chuckle that made me smile even more. “Hah. Hah. Hah. Dat’s jes so ree-deek-u-lous!”

  Could he really understand me? I wanted to reach out and touch him but his beak looked really sharp and Daddy always said not to pet strange dogs. Surely parrots had the same rule. “Do you have a name, pretty boy?”

  He squawked really loud and stretched out his body, his feathers standing on end until he looked like he’d been blown dry at the Goldilock’s Salon. “They call me Mister Tibbs . . . squawk.”

  Wow. Maybe he did understand. At least he answered politely. That’s better than some boys in my class at Mossy Creek Elementary.

  “Okay, Mr. Tibbs. I wonder if you live around here. I’ve never seen you before or heard of anyone talking about a parrot like you so maybe you’re just out for an adventure today. Is that it?”

  Mr. Tibbs didn’t answer, and I was already expecting him to do just that. Instead he broke into a cowboy song I’d heard on the TV while at Nana’s house. “Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’. Keep them doggies rollin’. Rawhide!”

  Before I could go “huh” I heard Casey Blackshear’s scooter whirring towards me. I looked over as she rounded the corner from Hamilton Street in her scooter, her daughter LiLi sitting on her lap in the baby carrier the coach wore whenever they were out.

  As they approached, LiLi pointed one chubby finger at Mr. Tibbs.

  “What in the world do you have there, Rabbit?” Mrs. Blackshear asked as they rolled to a stop next to my bike. She adjusted the safety harness that held LiLi.

  Casey Blackshear was my softball coach during her first summer in town. She’d been paralyzed in a car accident, but ever since coming to Mossy Creek she’d been burning up the sidewalks with her neat, motorized scooter. Her husband was the town veterinarian and had a practice over on Trailhead.

  Coach Casey was the one that gave me my nickname. I was Rabbit because I ran so fast in my first softball game when we beat our arch enemy, the Sky Ravens, in the battle to beat all battles. They’re still talking about that defeat down in Bigelow. I remind them every chance I get, just in case they forget. Bigelowans are big on forgetting stuff like that.

  “This is Mr. Tibbs.” I moved my bike so Mr. Tibbs was more or less facing Coach Casey. “I was riding down South Bigelow and he just landed right here. Can you believe it?”

  “Seeing is believing,” Mr. Tibbs added.

  “This is Mossy Creek, Rabbit.” Coach laughed. “I’d believe almost anything. How do you know his name?”

  “Elementary, my dear Watson,” Mr. Tibbs squawked, and we both laughed.

  Coach Casey smiled. “He’s quite the talker.”

  Mr. Tibbs started nodding and turning his head while LiLi somberly held out her hands in a “gimme” gesture towards the bird. Her mother, however, pulled her hands back, eyeing the beak. Couldn’t say I blamed her.

  As I told the coach about breakfast and why I was going to the library on a Saturday and more about the parrot, Mr. Tibbs spread his wings and hopped from my bike onto her scooter as easy as frog from a rock.

  “I’m an excellent driver,” he informed us, then let loose the perfect imitation of a wolf whistle.

  LiLi fell backwards against her mom, looking startled. Lili was way too quiet, people said. There might be something wrong with her.

  Mr. Tibbs laughed. “Ha! Ha! Ha!” he roared, puffing out his feathers, which delighted LiLi.

  LiLi struggled against Coach Casey’s hands.

  “No, LiLi.” Coach Casey said gently, and LiLi stopped wriggling. I was just as scared of Mr. Tibbs’s beak as the coach. I’d seen parrots at the zoo crack walnuts. Imagine what they could do to a baby’s little fingers.

  Suddenly Mr. Tibbs started to whistle the tune to Rock-A-Bye Baby and lowered his head towards LiLi, who quieted at the familiar song. Mr. Tibbs presented the back of his head to Coach Casey, rocking back and forth in a slow, to-and-fro motion. We were both a little surprised. He had to be the smartest bird on the planet!

  Still unsure, she held LiLi’s hands in one of hers but reached out and helped LiLi pet Mr. Tibbs’ head. “Gentle, sweetie.”

  The bird stopped moving but never stopped the lullaby. He held perfectly still, his song still as soft and steady as the spring breezes that circled us on South Bigelow Road. LiLi and Coach Casey stroked his head a few times, the little girl’s eyes and mouth forming a perfect “O.”

  When the coach and LiLi withdrew their hands, Mr. Tibbs bobbed his head in excitement and did a little dance on the scooter’s handle. He clicked his tongue loudly in what had to be approval of the attention. The kids at school were going to love him! I’d have the coolest pet ever.

  “Think I can pet him, Coach?” It was everything I could do to keep my own hands on my bike’s handlebars.

  “He seems tame enough, Rabbit.”

  Like he knew what I wanted, Mr. Tibbs ducked his head and cackled, “Go ahead . . . squawk . . . make my day.”

  I tentatively touched his crown feathers with my fingertips, but his tune changed. As I stroked his head, his eyes closed and he leaned into the palm of my hand.

  “I don’t believe it!” Coach Casey shook her head. Even LiLi had relaxed at the start of the new tune.

  “What song is that?”

  “Love Me Tender by Elvis Presley. That’s got to be the smartest bird in the world.”

  Since I agreed, I just continued to pet Mr. Tibbs and listen to him sing to us.

  “Do you know who he belongs to?” Coach settled LiLi on one side and reached into the backpack she had strapped to her scooter and removed a worn Teddy. LiLi grabbed the animal and immediately put its ear in her mouth. Kids.

  “No. Maybe I’ll just keep him. I was going to library to find out about owning more pets.” Not exactly a lie, I told myself but guilt nibbled at my insides.

  Mr. Tibbs woke from his little nap and shook out his feathers like a dog emerging from the creek.

  “Having a pet is a lot of responsibility, especially one like this. T
hey can live a really long time.” Coach Casey put her hand beneath Mr. Tibbs’s belly by his feet and he gently stepped onto her fingers. “We don’t see a lot of birds at Hank’s practice. This one’s well trained.” She brought him closer, still careful of LiLi’s reach although she was more interested in the Teddy at this point. “Smart as a whip, too. Someone spent a lot of time for him to be so friendly. I’ll bet he just got away from his home.”

  I was a little disappointed to tell the truth. I’d already started picturing Mr. Tibbs in my room at home, taking him to school to show off. No one had a pet that could talk, much less sing.

  “What should I do?” I knew the answer to the question already. Mr. Tibbs was just the one that said it out loud.

  Squawk. “Take me to your leader.”

  Both Coach and I laughed. LiLi watched her mother’s face but didn’t smile.

  Our laughter energized Mr. Tibbs, who bobbed and danced back and forth from one foot to another. “E.T. Phone home.”

  “He sounds just like the little alien in that movie. Amazing!” Coach set Mr. Tibbs back on my handlebars and moved her scooter back a few inches. “I guess you have your answer, Rabbit. Might as well head over to see if anyone’s put out word about a missing parrot with Chief Royden. Or maybe with your grandmother. They’ll be able to help you.”

  “I guess you’re right, Coach.” I replied, low at the prospect of turning over Mr. Tibbs to someone else. Only I didn’t want her to be right.

  “I think Hank is over at the theater working on the sets. Why don’t you stop there, too.” Coach Blackshear backed up her scooter with a quick flick of her wrist, circling her free arm around LiLi’s belly.

  “Thanks, Coach Casey.”

  “Be sure and let your parents know where you are, okay?” she added, then revved her scooter back down Trailhead.

  “Okay.”

  This was going to be one of those life lessons grownups liked to talk about. I didn’t want a life lesson. I wanted Mr. Tibbs.

  ooo

  I wasn’t sure if Mr. Tibbs would stay put on my handlebars once I started riding, but I didn’t know what to do about it. It wasn’t like I had a leash for a parrot in my back pocket. He seemed settled enough, grooming the big red spots on his wings like he had all the time in the world.

  Since there was only one way to find out, I pushed the bike slowly forward and watched as Mr. Tibbs adjusted to the tilt. “Ready to go, Mr. Tibbs?”

  With one wing out he squawked loudly, “Hi-Yo Silver,” and off we went towards town.

  South Bigelow Road took us towards the town square. The roads aren’t generally busy on a Saturday, so you can ride your bike in the street without much worry. Most Creekites aren’t in a big hurry, either. We’ll get where we’re going eventually, so we enjoyed the ride along the way.

  I liked coming into town this way, because sometimes you get a peek at the actors outside of the Mossy Creek Theater in their costumes. Their next play was going to be The King and I, and as we passed you could hear the music from the song, Getting to Know You, coming from the open doors. Mr. Tibbs must have liked it because off he flew in the direction of the theater.

  “Mr. Tibbs!” I shouted, pushing the bike faster in pursuit. Panic tumbled in my stomach like Jujubes after a ride on the Tilt-o-Whirl. What kind of pet owner would I be if I lost him on the first day? I couldn’t lose him. I’d just found him!

  The parrot sailed on a burst of wind onto the stair railing outside the theater, bobbing his head to the rhythm of the music escaping from inside. I dumped my bike in a jump-and-roll maneuver but he glided inside before I reached the stairs. Taking the stairs two at a time, I burst through the open door to find him perched on Mrs. Lavender’s head, whistling along with the music blaring from the boom box in the corner of the stage. Everyone inside was sitting in a circle, sheet music in hand, but their eyes were glued to the parrot.

  “Getting to knoooowwww you,” Mr. Tibbs crooned off-key, and he started his little dance. Everyone laughed. Well, everyone but Mrs. Lavender.

  Someone cut off the music, and Mr. Tibbs yelled at the boom box. “Play it again, Sam . . . squawk . . . play it again.”

  Everyone laughed so hard Mr. Tibbs did his little dance then stretched out and fluffed his feathers.

  “Uhh, Lil Ida? Is this your bird?” Anna Rose Lavender kept very still. She didn’t look scared, exactly, but having a strange parrot on your head can’t be very comfortable.

  Mr. Tibbs glided off Mrs. Lavender’s head to the boom box. “Say hello to my little friend.” He pecked at the shiny silver knobs. “Hello. Hello. Squawk.”

  “Yes. I mean, No . . . not really. Sort of?” I eased forward, and the circle of actors opened for me. They laughed in the way that grownups do when they think you’re being a silly kid. I felt my face go red. “I found him this morning on my way into town. I was taking him to the police station to see if there’s an APB out or something.”

  Using official language should prove to them I’m not a silly kid. I followed Coach Casey’s lead and put my hand beneath Mr. Tibbs’ belly. He came right to me.

  “APB?” Mr. Beau Belmont repeated, as sly a grin on his face as I’d ever seen. “All Parrot Bulletin?” He was Mrs. Lavender’s boyfriend, and his teasing even got her to smile. I wasn’t impressed at the moment however.

  Everyone laughed even harder, which of course started Mr. Tibbs to laughing in his deep chuckle.

  “Hey, Hank!” Mr. Belmont shouted. “We need you to make a house call out here.”

  Hank Blackshear poked his head out from behind the stage curtain. “Sure thing, give me a second.”

  Squawk. “Who’s on first? What? Second base.”

  Laughter rolled around the circle like the wave at an Atlanta Braves baseball game. Dr. Blackshear came out from behind the curtain with a paintbrush and paint can in his hands looking a little puzzled by the laughter. He shielded his eyes for a second to see what the ruckus was about, then put the paint supplies down and hopped off the stage.

  “What’s up, everyone? Hi, Lil Ida.”

  Mr. Tibbs whipped his head sideways as Dr. Blackshear came closer. “Well, hello big boy,” he drawled in a sexy Southern accent that sounded a lot like Jessica Rabbit. The whole room burst into laughter. I mean Dr. Blackshear was cute in a geeky sort of way. Not as cute as Orlando Bloom but then again, who is?

  He put his hands on his hips and adjusted his ball cap, two bright spots of red on his cheeks. “Well, hello back,” Dr. Blackshear greeted Mr. Tibbs. “Who do we have here, Lil Ida?”

  “Bond. Squawk. James Bond.” Mr. Tibbs announced in a proper British accent that would’ve impressed our snooty neighbors in Bigelow.

  “Think he wants a martini?” Mia, Mrs. Lavender’s daughter, joked.

  Squawk. “Shaken, not stirred.”

  Once the laughter quieted, I introduced everyone to Mr. Tibbs and explained how we’d met.

  Dr. Blackshear moved towards us and squatted down until he was eye level with me and Mr. Tibbs. He had a big smear of blue paint between his eyes and looked like Mr. Tibbs. “I’m not all that familiar with parrots, but I think he’s an Amazon. They’re supposed to be good talkers.”

  “Oh he is!” I petted Mr. Tibbs’ head to show everyone how friendly he was and how much liked me. “And he can sing, too.” I told them about meeting Coach Casey and LiLi and how Mr. Tibbs sang to us.

  “Maybe we can give him a part in the play, Anna Rose,” Mr. Joe Biddly said. “The bird can’t sing any worse than Del.”

  “Looks like he remembers lines better than you do, Joe,” Lt. Col. Jackson added. The lieutenant colonel had been Nana’s sweetheart for a while but things were different now. I heard Daddy tell Mamma it had been just a matter of time before Chief Royden won that war, but they caught me eavesdropping outside the kitchen and sent me back to bed. Still, I knew plenty about Nana and the chief.

  “Think I could keep him?” Dr. Blackshear was sure to be on my side after seeing how
much me and Mr. Tibbs liked each other.

  Dr. Blackshear stood to his full height and thought about things for a bit. “I think Casey was right. You need to head over to see Chief Royden or your grandmother. He’s valuable. Birds like these can live more than fifty years.”

  Squawk. “I’m older and I have more insurance.”

  He smiled at Mr. Tibbs. “Judging by his vocabulary, I’d say someone has taken a lot of time with him.” Then he ruffled my hair like I was a kid. Geez. “I’m sure they miss him,” he added.

  “Maybe somebody didn’t want him and let him go,” I added helpfully and hopefully. I brought Mr. Tibbs closer to me, feeling him slipping away. “It could happen, right?”

  “Anything is possible, Lil Ida.” Dr. Blackshear scratched Mr. Tibbs’ neck, but the look he gave me said he didn’t believe it. “I’m sure your grandmother and the chief can help you out.”

  We said our farewells (vocabulary word from last week) and let everyone get back to practice.

  Even Mr. Tibbs said good-bye in his own way. “May the Force be with you.”

  Mr. Tibbs took up his place on the handlebars after I righted the bike.

  “Wagons ho!” he squawked as we rode away from the theater.

  I could have gone straight to the police station or maybe towards town hall, where Nana sometimes worked on Saturday morning, but I wasn’t really in a hurry. Instead, I decided to head on by The Naked Bean and see if Ms. Reynolds was there with her son, Matt. I knew he’d get a kick out of Mr. Tibbs as much as LiLi.

  The Naked Bean was a coffee shop next to the bakery. People in town had problems with the word “naked” when Ms. Reynolds first opened up her business. The really old people wouldn’t even whisper the name when she hung up the sign. I asked someone what the big deal was and all they would tell me was it was a “grown-up thing.” I didn’t have to be a grown up to read the sign. I don’t know why I had to be a grown up to understand what it meant. Heck, naked was a vocabulary word back in third grade!

  Anyway, I had a dollar from my allowance in my pocket and the closer we got to Ms. Beechum’s bakery, the easier it was to smell the fresh pies and cakes she made for Sunday dinners and church socials. Ms. Reynolds also had cookies in her store, but they weren’t the regular kinds of cookies. I tried one once when Daddy ordered coffee and thought she must have left out a few ingredients. I wouldn’t tell her that, however. Daddy would’ve shot me dead. A slice of pie wouldn’t hurt while I figured out how to talk Mamma and Daddy into letting me keep Mr. Tibbs.