Pickles The Parrot: A Humorous Look At Life With An African Grey (4 page)

None the worse for wear, Pickles proceeded to
explore from this new, low perspective while I followed, making
sure there were no flies and hooks that had dropped on the floor.
His trek took him out the open back door and into the lobby of the
hotel where somebody was checking in with a dog on a leash. What
proceeded was a gentle black lab doing circles around his owner as
Pickles scampered after him asking for a kiss. I picked up Pickles
and set him in a potted tree in the sitting area while I seated
myself on a chair. As people came and went, Pickles called "Hello"
and, of course, nobody saw him so they returned the greetings to
me. Pickles decided to head down to the dirt so that was the end of
his little excursion.

He scared the hell out of me one day. He had
been in a frisky, talkative mood but suddenly he went quiet. I
turned to look at him and he was upside down, stuck in one of the
empty rings that usually hold his feeding dish. He had tried to go
through it, but then decided to back up which resulted in one wing
on top and the other on the bottom. He seemed quite calm, but I was
in a panic. I had no idea how to get him out and I just knew I was
going to get a bad bite trying. I held a towel below to cradle him
while I unscrewed the ring from the outside of the cage. I set both
on the floor and Pickles started to squirm so I covered him to calm
him while I figured out what to do. When I lifted the towel to
begin, I was greeted with “Well hello there!” He had freed himself
somehow and had come to the conclusion that this was just a fun
game. We have since removed all rings, in all cages, that aren’t
big enough for him to crawl through. This situation could have been
much worse had Pickles panicked. He could have lost a wing.

Shortly after our incident, three guys
wandered into the shop, complaining they hadn’t been catching fish
the last couple of days. I stood behind the counter, giving them
suggestions for flies that might work for them and they just
grumbled that none of them were working. I was still shaken by our
little incident earlier, had a hard time concentrating and was in
no mood for miserable fishermen but I took a deep breath and
started to say “Why don’t you try…” when suddenly Pickles piped up
with “Woolly Bugger”.

One guy looked at me, laughed and said, “We
don’t use Woolly Buggers, they’re just searching patterns.” I
chuckled and said, “I didn’t say you should.”

“Yes you did” he argued, “You just said
that.”

“Nooooo” I said, “HE said it” and pointed
behind me.

“Who?!” he asked, looking like he thought I’d
lost my mind.

I turned around to show him but there was no
bird in sight. Pickles was hiding in his little play box and I’m
left looking like some batty fly shop lady.

I told them there’s a bird in the box but
they weren’t buying it so I called Pickles. No answer.

The guys are looking for an escape route.

“Pickles!” No answer.

I walked over, peered in the box but Pickles
is just laying on his belly, bobbing his head at me. I put my hand
inside to bring him out but he gently took my finger in his beak
and pushed it aside.

“Oh you little stinker” I said, “Tell me
what’s working Pickles.”

“Woolly Bugger” says the wooden house.

“SEE?” I exclaimed.

“YOU said that!” they insisted.

Crap.

Time for drastic measures. “Daddy’s home!” I
hollered with excitement and out pops a head saying “Huh?”

“THERE! SEE?” I ask them.

“Is that a REAL bird?” one asks.

“Forget it” I said and went out on the floor
to help them, thinking these guys are thick.

Most people got a kick out of Pickles and
Pickles fit right in with the fly shop. He seldom disappointed
anyone with his antics and he enjoyed the social interaction. I
think it really helped him in becoming a well-balanced, albeit
pushy, bird. Later on, he would start picking and choosing the days
he wanted to come to work. I guess everybirdy needs a day off
sometimes.

Chapter 3

The Yard and The Neighborhood

Months had gone by and it was like Pickles
had been with us forever. Everything was going well. I had
purchased a screened bird backpack and Pickles would go for walks
with us or sometimes just shopping. He loved accompanying me to the
grocery store and while in the produce isle, would pipe up “Wanna
buy a bean.” Green beans were his food of choice these days.

He was quick to chat it up with people and
that was often embarrassing because Pickles was behind me so people
in front thought I was talking to myself and making strange noises.
For weeks, he had been making weird beeping noises but only while
in the grocery store. I didn’t know what it was until one day,
while standing in line at the check out till; the sound was coming
from both infront and behind me. He had picked up the sounds of the
lottery terminal and the clerks found this highly entertaining.

Pickles would willingly get in his backpack
or recently purchased travel cage. He was interested in seeing new
places. This included our trips to lake cabins for our fishing
trips. By now, we had 3 different cages other than his travel cage
and backpack. We would set up a cage at the cabin, next to a window
so that Pickles could watch the wildlife. He loved to watch all the
birds and bugs and quickly picked up 4 different loon calls. He
would announce to us “There’s a bug!” if one flew by and this
included hummingbirds. We would correct him but he was pretty sure
that anything that small, had to be a bug.

Pickles is a good traveler and he loves new
places and new scenery. This was a blessing since we spent so much
time staying in cabins, tents or our RV and fishing different
lakes. He was perfectly happy to be set up in a window where he
could not only watch nature, but also watch us in our boats on the
water. We never went far enough that we couldn’t keep an eye on
him, in case there were bird thieves in the area, and we could
always hear him.

We’re not bird watchers in the sense that we
take our binoculars everywhere and hunt around for different
species but we take great pleasure in watching the wild birds
around us and everything else that nature provides. There’s nothing
better than waking deep in the outdoors. You lay there, still
dozing, reluctant to rise and dreading the alarm clock. Slowly your
eyes flutter open and reality sets in. You're not at home! You're
at the lake!

A small campfire comforts you as you sip your
coffee in your favorite torn and tattered Lumberman's jacket.
Coffee taste so much better in the crisp, clean air just as the sun
rises. You know with certainty there's a lake only feet from where
you sit but it's hidden by the mist rising from the water. You know
there's fish because you can hear the soft splashes as they sip the
morning chironomids off the surface.

A sigh escapes your lips as the sun slowly
makes it appearance, struggling to free itself from beyond the
grassy hillside; glorious colors bathe the sky and blanket the
ground around you, giving the grass a soft velvety appearance.
Whisky Jacks, the friendliest birds in the forest, are gliding into
your campsite to perch patiently in hopes of breakfast. Beef Jerky
is the only food within reach and before you can rip it from its
package an especially friendly Jack is poised on your knee awaiting
a morsel. Unbelievable! You're so caught up in the moment that you
don't care that you've just fed $20.00 worth of Jerky to your
feathered friends.

What's that noise?! Huge buzzing mosquitos?
Ahhh, hummingbirds! At least a dozen, tiny delicate bodies hovering
and dive-bombing each other in competition for the sugary water
you've hung in the nearby Lodgepole tree. The sun glances off their
chests reflecting brilliant colors like cut crystal, colors you
never knew existed. One bird dives out of nowhere, a direct hit on
an unsuspecting hummer sitting and feeding contently on his perch.
He falls to the ground as your heart sinks with him. Collecting his
little body and cupping him in your palm, you realize he is merely
stunned. He sits, all fluffed up in a little ball, staring into
your face. You’re certain that when he comes to his senses he will
spear you with his needle-like beak, but he doesn't. A few minutes
pass, a final glance and he's up, up and away.

Breakfast is a leisurely meal consisting of
overcooked bacon and eggs accompanied by burnt campfire toast.
Delicious! By the second cup of coffee the lake is making it's
appearance from below the mist. Almost reluctantly you begin to
unpack your gear and put your rods together. After much anguishing
over the fly box, an interesting looking maroon sparkle leech is
chosen to grace the end of your sinking line. A good pattern to
start with, good for searching out fish.

On the way to the boat launch you stop at the
spawning channel. You’re feeling a little like a voyeur but the
feeling quickly passes as you get caught up in the dance of the
fish. One female, balanced on her side, violently thrashes the
gravel bottom with her tail over and over, desperately working on
the perfect bed to lay her eggs. A large, hook jawed male valiantly
chases off would-be suitors and displays the wounds of previous
battles. Time to go, a little privacy here please.

A quick check of the shoreline is proof that
you could not have picked a better time for this fishing trip.
Scuds in olives and browns as big as your thumbnail are swimming in
clouds. Mayfly nymphs skitter to and fro, damsel nymphs swimming
snake-like towards the weed beds and clinging to the weeds, clouds
of them having already emerged are rising from the tall grass,
caddis pupa on the move and a lone Gomphus dragonfly nymph waiting
in ambush behind a submerged rock. No sign of emerging chironomids,
just scattered shucks of all sizes on the surface—that's okay, the
rest can't stay down forever.

Pushing off from the shoreline, the water is
calm as glass as you head for the nearest drop-off dragging, the
leech just off the bottom. What was that??? A hit! Already?!
Raising the rod tip the line goes slack—probably bottom. Strip in
the line, check the fly, back in the water and off you go again.
Wham! Now THAT'S a hit! Rod tip up—too late. Strip the line in,
check the fly; back in the water and off you…there it is again!
Raise the rod tip, line is taut this time as a nice chrome 22
incher explodes out of the water—he lands with a less than elegant
splash, dives, takes a run for it, peeling off line so fast you're
afraid he'll smoke the old reel. Suddenly nothing. Is he gone? No!
He's heading straight toward you in leaps and bounds along the
surface! NOBODY can strip THAT fast! He dives, only to reappear
seconds later 4 feet from your nose. Seemingly suspended mid-air,
in slow motion you watch him spit the hook and roll his eyes at you
as he sinks into the depths leaving you looking like a drowned rat.
As you regain you composure you start to laugh, well THAT was
fun!

The rest of the cruise is uneventful and upon
arriving at the chosen drop-off time is spent casting into the
shallows with absolutely no action. Your mind drifts as all the
worries and cares of everyday life flow from your body in pleasant
little waves. The sky is partially clouded, weather is warm and you
can't ever remember feeling so content.

Thoughts are scattered as 2 mating loons
catch your attention about 100 feet away. They bob and rise, twist
and turn, dive and re emerge, flap their wings and dance across the
water in perfect unison, looking amazingly like a mirror image. The
show ends as they head across the lake, half flying, half running
across the water and out of sight.

Reflecting on nature, you've unknowingly
drifted into the shallows and find yourself gazing into the clear
water. Looky, looky! Fish! Lots of them! Cruising in less than 5
feet of water. Sticklike creatures are poking up everywhere along
the surface—chronies! A quick inspection reveals an assorted
mixture of colors and sizes, it's a free-for-all! How to choose?!
Starting with a size 16 redbutt, changing to a size 14 pheasant
tail then moving on to a size 12 chromie produces nothing but the
odd tap. Oh hell, just leave it out there and wait.

While you're waiting you notice the most
perfect piece of land right in front of you. Before long, you've
built a modest little cabin nestled in the trees—just enough trees
to partially seclude you from prying, envious eyes but not enough
to block the sun. The quaint little porch is graced with the most
rickety, but comfortable, old rocking chairs. A beaten path leads
to the T-shaped floating dock with lots of room for a back cast.
Maybe one day the dream will become reality.

What an interesting statue. Right there where
the dock should be. Holy cow, it's a heron. Watching…watching…why,
it hasn't moved a muscle for at least 10 minutes, I wonder how
long…whoops, missed a hit, strip the line in fast so I can get back
to watching the heron…wham! Hard hit! Hurry! Hurry haaard! A couple
of good runs, couple of dives, still haven't seen him but he's
ready to come in. Ahhhh, beauuuuty! Slide the barbless hook out
nice and easy, release him gently into the water and off he goes—18
inches maybe, and fat. Damn, you look up just in time to see a
small fish disappearing down the throat of the heron.

Swoooosh, SPLASH! What the hell was THAT?!
You turn and look just as an osprey is beating it's wing along the
water surface and rising, rising into the sky with a fish bigger
than the one you just released. He banks hard to the left and you
notice why. A bald headed eagle has taken up the chase. The osprey
ducks and dodges, finally makes it into the cover of the forest.
The eagle gives up, heads high into the sky and hovers. He starts
to drop, nope, changes his mind, back into position. A minute
later—nose down, he dives like a missile, faster and faster then
just feet from the water he jams on the brakes, pulls out, glides
along the surface and starts his ascent to search once again.