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

by Abbott, Georgi

  In the end, we had no choice but to nurse him until he was strong enough to fly. We just couldn’t bring ourselves to leave him in the elements to die, even though nature should take care of it. To us, it wasn’t ‘nature’ in an RV Park packed with people and dogs. He wouldn’t stand a chance. We named him Parker, after the RV ‘Park” and took on the parental obligations.

  He was placed in the cage on the deck, beneath the awning and against the outer wall. On the other side of the wall, was Pickles’ cage and play stand. Pickles couldn’t see Parker, but he could hear him. The two of them cawed back and forth to each other, or at least Pickles would answer Parker’s caws each time.

  The first 3 or 4 days, Parker just lay on his side on the bottom of the cage on a bed of towels. We continued to feed him with pliers because it made it easier and because he should never be conditioned to human hands. We never pet him, or held him, and even tried to keep talking to a minimum. As a result, Parker never did learn to like us, or trust us.

  We tried a variety of foods and he ate most readily—soppy bread, wieners, potatoes, fruit and veggies, worms and bugs—but I think his favorite was the dry dog food, which was loaded with protein. The WildLife guy told us that bread held no nutrition for him but it’s the only way we could get water in him, he was too young to drink from a bowl. We were afraid to use a dropper as young crows can swallow wrongly and end up choking, so the wet bread got the water down.

  By now, we knew the difference between a nestling and a fledgling. Nestlings can’t fly and belong in the nest, fledglings leave the nest and spend days on the ground, under the careful eye of the parents, while learning how to fly. Often people try to rescue them, thinking they are abandoned or injured. Parker was a nestling who wouldn’t be able to take care himself and the parents wouldn’t be able to protect him.

  Eventually, he was attempting to stand up but still wasn’t able to perch on a cage branch. The cage wouldn’t support his wingspan so we built a screened enclosure on the ground and filled one side with a pile of branches so that when he was ready, he could perch on them.

  His parents, and the extended family, still hung around in the trees above to keep an eye on him and they constantly crowed their displeasure with us. I had read that youngsters of previous years would stay with their parents, helping them raise subsequent batches, or clutches, of babies. Our days were filled with the cacophony of crows, including Pickles.

  As Parker got better at standing, we would release him from the cage for short periods of time. The first time we did, he tried to bolt but he was like a little drunken soldier who could only stagger round and round in circles, falling now and then on his side. He was eventually able to fly in short bursts until finally, he was able to land in a tree. He spent the first night there and the next day was able to fly a couple of hundred feet. We got busy at the park and when we returned, there was no sign of him. He’d flown the coop.

  He had never learned to trust us and whenever we appeared, he would try to move away from us. After he flew away, he wasn’t interested in returning for food or companionship; he just wanted the hell out of there. After that, we would catch sightings of him. We knew it was he because he was smaller than the rest in the group and his caw had always sounded more like a duck quack. He also drank from puddles better than the other juvenile crows he hung with, having to learn a little quicker in captivity.

  We’ve always wondered how he faired and we now pay closer attention to all crows. I’ve always loved them, and like a stupid teenager, I once captured a friendly crow and kept him in the basement. Somebody had given me a large monkey cage (no idea why they had one) but mostly one of us kids would free him to fly around and interact with us. He was friendly, affectionate and fun but he sure made a mess of the basement. My mom eventually talked me into freeing him by making me feel guilty about taming a wild bird, that he needed to be with other crows and free to fly. But Parker had given me a new appreciation for these intelligent creatures that are loaded with personality.

  Summer continued and it was a scorcher. The RV had air-conditioning and I stole back there every chance I got. One day I decided to take a nap while Neil was doing the weed whacking and just as I was dozing off, there came a knock at the door. I decided to ignore it but Pickles, the social butterfly, opts for answering the door. Pickles has 3 voices—mine, Neil’s and his own—all sound naturally human.

  Pickles: “Hello?”

  Man: “Hello?”

  Pickles: “Hellooooo!”

  Man: “I need to check in, please.”

  Pickles: “We’re out of beans!”

  Man: “Excuse me?”

  Pickles: “Fresh out of beans!”

  Man: Silence.

  Pickles: Silence.

  Me: Dying a slow death.

  Man: “Can I check in please?”

  Pickles: “Well, hello there!”

  Me, muttering under my breath: “For the love of God Pickles! Please, PLEASE, shut the hell UP!”

  Man’s wife join’s Man…

  Wife: “Isn’t anybody home, honey?”

  Pickles: “Everybody’s home!”

  Man: (very quietly) “I think there’s a mentally handicapped person inside.”

  Me, to myself: “Oh great. Just great.”

  Pickles: (sings song) “Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring BANANA PHONE! Boop boop ba doop”

  The sound of footsteps walking away.

  Me: “Oh, thank God”.

  Pickles: Not yet finished and spotting them out the window lets go a loud wolf whistle and calls out “Bye-bye baby!”

  It’s over, they’re gone, but I’m still cringing.

  The next day I’m sitting outside the trailer (my long hair still in a bird’s nest, raccoon eyes from last night's mascara, teeth still in a cup next to the bed) having my morning coffee as they go by, walking their dog. They spot me and suddenly pick up speed, heading away.

  I’m tempted to yell out “I’m not crazy—I own a parrot!!!”

  But, what’s the use. It just…never…ends…

  The office/store was only about 100 feet from our RV and some starlings had built a nest in the eaves. We enjoyed sitting on our deck, watching them. They were very busy, flying in and out to feed the babies. As the babies grew older (at least 8 of them), they’d appear at the opening, chirping and calling for their parents. One morning they all appeared on the roof outside, jumping up and down, testing their wings. Suddenly, they all took off in one fell swoop. Just like that, they had gone exploring only to return now and then for a few moments until they were gone for good.

  The parents still hung around and we soon realized they had another batch of babies. More entertainment! But the store needed a new roof and we knew the contractors would be starting soon. We hoped the babies would have time to mature but it wasn’t the case.

  They showed up one morning while Neil was in town and I was preparing for the day. I went outside for my coffee and to see what would happen. Starlings are considered a nuisance around there, there’s too many of them and I knew there was nothing that could be done for them but I wasn’t prepared for what I saw.

  When the crew ripped off the eaves, it was discovered that the nest went down into the outer walls. A guy was on a ladder, pulling out huge handful after handful of straw bedding while another guy was working next to him on the roof. The first guy came up with a baby dangling by the feet and in the blink of an eye, the other guy snipped off his head with a tool. I was horrified. And frozen in place. I wanted to yell at them but I knew it would do no good, they had a job to do, they couldn’t stop for birds and the birds were too young to survive on their own. So, I said nothing. A minute later, the first guy came up with another baby but the other guy was further away and told him to just throw it on the roof, that the crows would eat it. I was dying inside.

  The crew knocked off early, only an hour into the job, and took off in their trucks. I wanted to climb the ladder and look for the bird but I’m
deathly afraid of heights so I just walked around the building looking for signs of the baby. Neil arrived while I was looking and I asked him to climb up and check the roof but he couldn’t find the chick.

  I went back to sit on the deck and suddenly, the two parent starlings appeared from behind the building, flapping and dancing half off the ground, with the baby running after them. The three of them ducked into a large bush and for the rest of the day, the parents were in and out tending to him. The next day I looked but never saw any sign of them from then on.

  I was telling somebody about it later on and I found out that starlings are actually protected! I learned that construction comes to a standing halt where nests are concerned! Oh God, the guilt that set in. I was mortified that I had let this happen and I’ll never forgive myself. After doing some research on starlings, I discovered they had great character and intelligence. They can actually learn to talk and I even watched a video of a talking pet starling. No need to chastise me, I continuously punish myself. I was wrong. Dead wrong.

  Eventually the roof was completed. It was gabled so it was cooler in the store now and Pickles enjoyed hanging out with us, or playing with the hanging toys on his play stand. One particular day, he was in an especially playful and talkative mood. He bantered back and forth with us and any customers who visited.

  Pickles is almost always eager to talk to people but the odd time, he sits like a lump and refuses to display the slightest hint of his talents. People scoff at our claims of a bird with over 100 words (at that time) in his vocabulary. No amount of prodding will make him speak up. It makes us feel a little bad because the excitement of meeting a real live, talking parrot quickly turns to disappointment for them when Pickles won’t speak.

  A young couple walked in with their son, a toddler. Pickles LOVES kids so he immediately swung down the branches to the base of the stand, as close as possible to the boy.

  Pickles: Hello baby.

  Boy: Stares in surprise.

  Pickles: Wanna grape?

  Boy: Mouth gapes, eyes widen.

  Pickles: Dontcha wanna grape?

  Boy: Grabs and hugs daddy’s leg.

  Pickles: Let’s go getta grape. Dontcha wanna eacher grape? Wanna potato?

  Boy: Lips begin to quiver.

  Pickles: SPEAK.

  Boy: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

  Pickles: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

  Mom and dad rush little boy out of store.

  Pickles scurries up the branches to watch them leave through the window then tucks one foot up, fluffs up his feathers, puffs out his cheeks and mumbles “What a bean.”

  Ha! The shoe’s on the other foot. Now he knows how it feels.

  Now and then, people who had heard about Pickles but had never seen him would come to our RV in hopes of meeting him. We didn’t really like people dropping by because we worked basically from sun up to sun down, always dealing with people and we sought privacy, whenever we could get it. But a nice couple showed up one evening as we were eating appetizers so we invited them in and shared some food after they finished admiring Pickles.

  We sat down to chat and had two conversations going at one time. Suddenly I became aware of another voice. I turned to see Pickles, on a branch, reaching as close as possible to us, hollering “WANNA SPEAK! WANNA SPEAK! WANNA SPEAK!”

  “Sorry Pickles. What did you wanna say?” I asked.

  “I said hello,” Pickles answered.

  Everybody said “Hello” back.

  Then Pickles informed the closest guest to him, “You got some on your beak”.

  “What’s on my beak?” the guest asked.

  “Piiiizzzzzaaaaaa” (pizza) informed Pickles, and then added, “Wanna eat something to eat?”

  Our stint at the RV Park was almost at an end and I had been thinking about getting a dog. I searched around for a Doberman Rescue and found one in a nearby town. One thing led to the next and a couple of days before we packed up, I came home with a large, red Dobie. He was about 4 years old and appeared as laid back as the 2 Dobies I had owned in previous years. I brought him, on a short leash, to introduce him to the bird but he immediately lunged for Pickles. I thought, hmmmm, maybe he’s just excited to see him and just wanted to sniff at Pickles. When I had first brought a kitten home to another Doberman I had owned, this dog had lunged at the kitten but only to sniff, lick and play. It had scared me at first but that dog was nothing but gentle and caring with that kitten from the moment they met.

  I held on tight to the leash and slowly brought the dog’s head closer to Pickles but his mouth opened and his teeth snapped. That was it, back to the rescue centre. I was sad—he was a nice dog and deserved a good home, but this wasn’t the one for him. I would look for another dog.

  Our time at the Park had been good for Neil and Pickles. Before the Park, their relationship had been improving day by day but over the summer, their bonding became complete. I wasn’t around that much, having taken a full time job in Kamloops, so the two of them spent a lot of time together. Neil stopped into the RV often throughout the day to give Pickles snacks or to play with him. The rest of the time, Pickles could watch Neil from the windows as he went about his day. Neil could hear Pickles chattering and singing from just about anywhere in the park and from time to time Pickles would call out “Daddy home?” Neil call back “Pretty soon” and Pickles would holler, “Woo hoo!” and go back to whatever he was doing. It must have looked and sounded pretty strange to anyone watching.

  When I was home, and we were all in the RV, Pickles would become antsy. Nothing would please him—snacks, games, attention—he was miserable and we didn’t know how to make him happy. At times, we couldn’t stand his demanding screeches so we’d tell him ‘bye-bye’ and go sit out on the deck. The minute we said ‘good bye’ he would perk right up and hoot, holler and whistle. He could hear us on the other side of the wall, he knew we were there, and yet he continued with his happy sounds the whole time. To this day, Pickles does the same thing any time we leave the house.

  It was at the Park where Neil started taking Pickles on “Snack Safaris”. When Pickles wasn’t looking, Neil would hide the small bowl of pine nuts. Pickles would step up on his hand while they went looking through rooms, closets, and cupboards until they found the bowl. Pickles loves this game. He will show Neil where to look by leaning so far out in the direction he wants to go, that he almost falls off his hand. Each time that the pine nuts aren’t in the spot Pickles chose, he’d fluff up in disappointment and go “hmmmm” but quickly lean towards the next spot until finally the bowl is discovered and he blurts, “THERE’S the snacks!” He’s then rewarded with the opportunity to eat as many as he likes from the bowl.

  Our last day at the RV Park, a man came in to the office to talk to me. I had warned Neil several times, “If you are going to put an RV next to ours, make sure you warn the people. Tell them about Pickles and all the noise he makes at 6:00 in the morning when we get up.” Does he listen? No.

  The man asks if I have a parrot. “Why yes I do!” I replied, all proud like. “That’s what I thought,” Grumbled the guy, “Sure wish you would have warned us.” “Huh?” I said, suddenly feeling not so proud.

  Turns out the wife had a bad dream that morning. Something about an alien invasion in the RV Park. Why? Because Pickles’ vocal menu this morning included cel phones, sirens, whistles, ray guns and the beep beep beep of vehicles backing up.

  When the wife woke up, but still half asleep, she was horrified to find the chaotic sounds were coming from right outside her window. Believing that we were in a state of emergency almost gave the old gal a coronary.

  They were NOT happy campers. No sense of humour.

  Next time I saw Pickles, I gave him a piece of my mind. Told him he was a brat and that he shouldn’t upset poor old people like that. Told him he got me in trouble—AGAIN.

  Pickles was on his play stand and lumbered up slowly and thoughtfully, as close as possible to me. His stance and facial
expression projected deep thought and wisdom as he stared deep into my eyes and profoundly replied, “Eat your beak.”

  On that note, we left the RV Park and headed back home.

  Chapter 6

  Pickles Gets a Dog

  It was the end of September; we were finally home and settling in for the winter. Winters can be long and harsh in this high altitude town and I despise it. The snow can be beautiful and I love the silence it brings with it, and the sparkling clean look of trees laden with snow but once Christmas passes, I have absolutely no use for it. Winter brings blubber. Blubber’s supposed to be gained before winter, for warmth and sustenance but I stack on the pounds during winter. We don’t participate in winter sports; we just eat for lack of anything better to do. I get bored and when I get bored, I’m miserable. Poor Neil, I think it’s akin to throwing a bear in the cabin and locking the doors. How that sweet, good-natured guy puts up with me, I’ll never know.

  I figure, let’s get a dog. He would be good company, we could walk him for exercise and keep in shape. Yeah! That’s the ticket! So, I contacted the Doberman Rescue centre again and within a couple of days, we bonded with a sweet little black and tan Dobie named Athena. She was good-natured and laid back, so laid back that mostly she slept. She had lived in 4 homes by the time she was 3, never abused but mostly neglected. We were assured that she was not aggressive and it seemed her only baggage was separation anxiety and fear of abandonment. Perfectly understandable.