Pickles The Parrot: A Humorous Look At Life With An African Grey

by Abbott, Georgi

  Pickles The Parrot

  By Georgi Abbott

  Smashwords Edition © Copyright 2010 Georgi Abbott.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  Cover photo by Derek Armstrong

  Cover/Jacket design by Tamber King

  Dedication

  To David Hathaway

  I know it’s not what you had in mind, but it’s a start.

  And to my husband, Neil

  For your excitement, support and encouragement.

  Chapter One

  Georgi Gets a Parrot

  What the hell have I done?

  Our new African Grey Congo Parrot, Pickles, has just settled in his new cage in our living room. He went in willingly enough and I quickly closed the cage door and fell in a heap on the couch. I lay there staring at him, and he at me. Silence, while we each pondered our new living situations.

  A couple of days ago, I had contacted some parrot breeders (Thomas & Sylvia) who had a lone African Grey, one in a clutch and three months old. Knowing Pickles, having lived with and being possessed by him for eight years, I now suspect he killed and ate his siblings. All attention, at all times, must be solely directed toward him. Having siblings would only cramp his style.

  My husband Neil and I live in the interior of British Columbia, Canada. Thomas and Sylvia live on Vancouver Island. No quick trip. 4 hours drive to the ferry, a couple of hours early to ensure passage and a two-hour ferry ride. My mother, Zoe, lives on the coast so I over-nighted with her and she accompanied me on the ocean voyage. Mom didn’t say much when I told her I was getting a parrot but I don’t think she understood the attraction.

  Thomas and Sylvia met us on the other side, at the ferry terminal. It was very much like a drug deal, or even a kidnapping, as we were ushered from the arrival area and hustled into the side doors of a van. They looked nice enough, but they always say that during a television interview about the neighbor who was just arrested for murdering, dismembering and burying a body in his back yard.

  Once in the van, the exchange began. Pickles, who had not been named yet, was removed from a small cage. He ‘stepped up’ readily and after admiring him briefly, he was handed off to me. I had to impress these people for the deal to be approved so I swallowed my fear of strong beaks and reached for him. I had owned budgies and cockatiels and was under the impression that you put your finger firmly on the bottom of the chest to coerce a bird to step up. In all my parrot research since then, I have discovered that’s wrong, not to mention annoying for the bird. They must have thought I was nuts but everything went smoothly as I chatted with Pickles, fed him some mash, wiped his beak and even got some kisses. Having retained my lips, I was thrilled with my little package.

  A rolled up wad of cash was exchanged and mom and I boarded the return ferry. Pickles had been inserted in a plastic dog kennel with built-in perch and covered up. I had been warned that fumes from the car deck could be toxic to Pickles so he was smuggled to the upper decks. I didn’t do a very good smuggling job since I couldn’t resist lifting the blanket to interact with Pickles—a lot. Mom was taking a shine to him too, lifting the blanket often to chat with him. He attracted much attention from other ferry passengers and he was pretty cool with that. He mostly cooed, chirped and whistled with the odd grating little screech sound, which over the next couple of days, I learned did not reflect a happy mood.

  I over-nighted at moms again and some other family members came to see the parrot. Pickles was enjoying the attention and all the food treats but soon tired. By now, he had grown to resent his small accommodations so getting him in the kennel became more and more difficult. He’d just latch on to my finger and refuse to step down on the perch. I finally got him bedded and covered for the night then we arose early to beat the heat for the four-hour drive home.

  Pickles had had enough driving. Very quickly, he latched himself to the holes in the sides of the kennel with his beak and talons and began his insistent little screech. I felt bad but my God! How long can one endure that sound? Pickles was irritated, I was getting cranky as hell and the second-guessing of myself began. It was hot and I had to be careful about opening windows because I had read that parrots could die in drafts. What the heck is a draft?? Any moving air at all? Just cold air? I wasn’t sure and I wasn’t taking any chances so windows remained closed. We both got crankier and crankier until I was sure Pickles had stopped liking me, and I didn’t give a damn because I was ready to ring his little neck.

  But we endured, we were home and now we sat staring at each other. The last couple of days had been such a whirlwind, everything happened so fast. I mean, I had just been thinking of getting a parrot. I didn’t think I would find one so quickly and all the research I had done the past year did not prepare me. I was getting an anxiety attack. Along with my exhaustion, panic set in, followed by depression. I lay down on the couch and before I fell into a deep sleep, I drifted off thinking about my first bird, a blue budgie named Cheery.

  My parents presented me with Cheery when I was a young girl. He was a beautiful little blue bird, both friendly and mischievous. He liked to give little kisses and nibble on an ear or play with my hair. His favorite thing was on family birthdays or other occasions when cards were displayed on the TV, he would drag them all to the edge and watch them float to the floor. He was allowed to fly free in the house a lot and I remember him landing smack dab in the middle of a lemon meringue pie my mom had baked. He wasn’t happy about this at all and he let us know by giving us the evil eye and angry chirps between cleaning sticky pie off his feathers.

  He talked a lot for a little budgie. He knew all the names of our family of 6 and a few phrases. One year I taught him to sing “Here Comes Santa Clause” and “Grouchy Mr. Clemens” to the tune of “Ring Around the Rosie”. Mr. Clemens was my dad and I thought it would be funny for my dad to hear that one day. And it was. I’ll never forget the look on my dad’s face the first time he heard it. Cheery would sometimes get confused and start to sing the Santa song but end up with my dad’s song, resulting in “Here Comes Grouchy Mr. Clemens”.

  Cheery was a great little guy and the beginning of my love for birds of any kind. He flew out the door one day when someone wasn’t paying attention and even though we put ads in every paper, laundry mat and store, we never saw him again. I had several budgies after that and at one point, a cockatiel but my whole life, I dreamt of having a parrot.

  I grew up with dogs, cats, birds, pet mice—anything I could talk my parents into letting me have. I had a fascination with frogs, toads, snakes and bugs and would sometimes collect them and keep them in my room, much to my mother’s horror. She found worms in my pockets when she did my laundry, jars of slugs when she cleaned my room and it seemed I was always shoving something in her face telling her to “Look Mom!”

  She didn’t mind my pet toad but she talked me into releasing it in the yard. He turned out to be quite friendly and would greet us if we walked down the path or he would play with our
black Lab to pass the time. He hibernated each winter and appeared again each spring until the neighbors removed a pile of boulders along the fence line, where we figured he hibernated, and he never returned the next year.

  My white mouse died the day after I took him, against my mother’s warnings, for a bicycle ride. I had him in my handlebar carriage and mom told me the weather was too cold for him and that he’d get sick. The next morning I found him dead in his cage. I was devastated and sick with guilt but mom wouldn’t let me stay home from school for a day of mourning. At lunchtime, I talked my friend Bonnie into coming home with me so we could have a proper funeral so we packed him in a shoebox and buried him beneath my bedroom window. When the neighbor lady saw us and realized what we were up to, she told us to go back to school. It’s only a mouse, she said. I always liked this lady but that day I thought she was a cruel old broad. A few months later, my curiosity got the best of me and I dug up the grave but there was nothing left to find.

  I would spend hours watching a spider catch and wrap a fly in his web and I can remember watching maggots slowly devour a dead cat every day on my way home from school. Birds and their nests were especially interesting to me but my mom kept me away from baby birds by telling me that once my scent was on a baby or the nest, the mother would reject or kill the bird. I was fascinated with anything live. And now, I had a real live parrot.

  Hours later, I awoke. What a good bird, he hadn’t made a sound while I slept. He didn’t then, and he doesn’t to this day. This is a blessing as we like to nap on our couches, and well, there is the odd hangover day. Even in the mornings, Pickles remains under cover while singing and chatting to himself until we get up. The only time he ever demands out is if we completely forget about him. Why, what a quiet, considerate bird! This isn’t toooooo bad, I thought.

  Neil arrived home from the fly shop, which we owned and operated at the time, and I introduced man and bird. Pickles liked him right off the bat but we soon found out that Pickles likes everybody right off the bat. Neil was a little hesitant about touching him but quickly found that Pickles readily welcomed scratches and kisses.

  Then there were the cats. Three of them. Thomas had assured me that Pickles wouldn’t be afraid of cats, as he had spent his first 3 months with small dogs. This turned out to be true but we had concerns about the cats being too interested in him. They were at first. The interest quickly turned to fear the first time Pickles displayed his wingspan. We never had a problem between the cats and parrot but by the end of Pickles first year with us, all 3 cats had disappeared. Probably owls, but again, I suspect Pickles eliminated them. An empty lap meant available hands for perching.

  We pondered names but I basically dismissed any of Neil’s suggestions except for Logan. Eventually we settled on Pickles. When I was a little girl, the old man down the lane nicknamed me that because I liked dill pickles. It seemed a perfect fit for our new bird.

  Things were awkward at times with Pickles that first night. We were unsure of how to entertain him and just holding him on our hands grew a little boring after awhile, for him and for us. I still doubted my decision to get a parrot but the next day removed all my doubts once and for all. I had been overtired from the long, stressful trip and it had clouded my judgment. Come to think of it, every pet I ever owned caused me to have a panic attack the first day I brought them home.

  Upon waking, I jumped out of bed and ran to the living room to remove the cage cover. I was greeted with the sweetest little face, a cluck and a coo, and I fell in love right there and then. As I opened the door and locked it into place so that it wouldn’t swing shut on Pickles’ little footsies, Pickles scrambled out and propped himself on the top of the door. His head bowed and his neck feathers ruffled, signaling he wanted a scratch. He stepped up readily and we went to the couch to get better acquainted.

  It was immediately apparent that Pickles was bursting with personality and character. He had adapted to his new home with no apparent signs of stress and little or no fear with new objects, sounds or movements. Pickles has never become much of a cuddling bird, preferring to sit on a knee, hand or couch arm but he definitely has his moments. Right from the start, you just knew he was a confident, well-adjusted bird who could turn on the charm with the flick of a switch. He was smart—too damn smart, with a little streak of pure evil. A deadly combination.

  Right off the bat, Pickles preferred his human interaction to be straightforward and sensible. Just sit and chat with some playing thrown in, such as swinging on a towel, throwing a towel over him, playing tickle, tickle (as Pickles would say—ticko, ticko) or having my fingers chase after him to “grab his little chicken toes”.

  He wasn’t particularly destructive although for a few years, buttons were snapped off in a blink of an eye and all clothing was pocked with little beak holes. TV remotes were completely fascinating and there was no obstacle that could keep him from them.

  He knew right away that our laughter was a good thing and he was like a toddler, doing whatever it took to keep it coming. If he ever got in trouble, he’d quickly throw in an antic for distraction. And it usually worked.

  I think his first comedic antic was the time he spotted an empty pop bottle that had fallen to the floor. He was down from his cage in a flash and running toward it before we had a chance to pick it up. When he got to it, he lowered his head like a bull before a charge and stood there clucking at it. When the bottle didn’t respond, he gave it a quick shove, which sent the bottle rolling and Pickles took up the chase. A few shoves and rolls later, Pickles decided to hop on it and suddenly found himself doing the barrel roll with wings aflapping, ending in a face plant on the carpet.

  The bottle needed to be taught a lesson so he grabbed it by the neck with his talon and waved it in the air with a loud verbal assault. He alternated between waving it in the air and smashing it on the floor until he misjudged and bonked himself in the head. This made him angrier and he waved it harder, until he got bonked again! The angrier he got, the more spastic his motions so he just kept getting bonked. Finally, he tossed it away and as he turned to leave, the bottle came after him—a result of its ricochet off the table. Pickles ran screaming to my feet, scrambled up my leg and sat there all fluffed up while muttering as he glanced angrily over his shoulder to make sure the bottle wasn’t following.

  Since Pickles was happiest sitting on a lap or couch arm, he quickly realized that talking was in his best interest. He knew a few words before we got him but now he spat out new words at staple gun speed and used them wisely. We’ve never really taught Pickles words, we merely converse with him as you would a young child learning to speak and connect meanings to words, for the most part.

  Pickles was cheeky and sneaky and full of sass. Teasing and torturing were his past time, everybody and everything was fair game. The first real proof we got was the day he was sitting on the top perch of his cage, digging in to his hanging bucket of talon toys and tossing them with pinpoint accuracy into his water dish below. Once the bucket was empty and the water bowl full, he toodled down to sit on the side of the bowl to pick out the toys, one by one, and throw them to the cage floor.

  The small white whiffle ball, filled with pony beads, was saved until last. This poor toy was destined for torture. He eyed it softly, purring to it as he gently plucked it from the water with his talon "Hello baby. Step up. Good boy!" he praised. He caressed it lovingly against his ears, clucking and cooing and then, having successfully seduced the ball into submission, he turned on it…

  He waved it savagely in the air, held it next to his beak and began the interrogation. "Want some fresh water? HUH? WANT SOME FRESH WATER?" he demanded. Before the ball could get its bearings and answer, it was quickly submerged and held beneath the water.

  Just as the poor little ball was on the verge of drowning, he yanked it out and waved it violently in the air shouting "WANT SOME FRESH WATER? HUH?" but before the little ball could answer, it was quickly dunked again. This went on several times u
ntil Pickles cast the choking, sputtering ball off into the corner in repulsion.

  He dismissed the poor defeated ball, climbed out of his cage and turned on me. "Wanna grape? Wanna grape! WANNA GRAPE!!" I quickly brought him his grape but he was so embroiled in his tirade that it took him a moment to notice that I’d already set the grape on top of his cage. He shouted on, "WANNA GRAPE! WANNA GRAPE! WANNA GRAPE! WANNA ooooooooo…uh…huuuuuuh." He set upon it and left me in peace, thankful that I had escaped his water torture.

  Another time, I handed him a pinecone to chew on, he flung it in my face and told me to "Stop being a brat."

  I sang him a song and he spat "Just stop it!"

  I was on my hands and knees cleaning up the mess around his cage and he hollered "Get back up!"

  I give him a tasty snack and he demands "Want ANOTHER snack."

  I leave the room to fetch a different snack and he hollers after me "Be right back!"

  I return and give him a grape. He grabs it in his beak, flings it across the room and says, "Want juice."

  I give up, sit on the couch and ignore him and he asks politely "Whassa matter? Don't you wanna grape?"

  "No" I say, "YOU'RE a brat."

  "Bugger" he retorts.

  You can’t win with him and he always gets the last word. We are emotionally abused parronts and there is no help program available for people like us. We are doomed for life.

  I had never heard an African grey scream before and the first time I heard Pickles scream, I almost had a coronary. I came running into the room expecting the worst and found him hanging upside down on a toy. “What’s wrong??” I asked, “Are you okay??” He just looked at me and said “Huh?” I stood and watched him for a minute and he just hung there, jabbing at his toys. I figured it was a false alarm and left the room. Immediately he let out a bloodcurdling scream and I ran back to him. He was upside down, flailing his wings and screaming bloody murder. I figured he must have got his toes stuck in the toy so I started to reach for him saying, “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’ll help you.” And he went limp, looked at me upside down and said, “Huh?” He was obviously fine, just a little put out that I kept disturbing his play, but I’d had the scare of my life and my first Grey scream experience.