Pickles The Parrot: A Humorous Look At Life With An African Grey (3 page)

This game takes dexterity. If you’re timing
is off, you’re going to wind up with a bird hanging by the beak
from a finger. At one point, in my haste to flip the towel, I let
go of one end before I had a hold of the other. Pickles fell and
landed perfectly in a little rectangular box I had left on the
couch, with the towel crumpling on top of him. I lifted the towel
to find him tightly wedged on his back, snug as a glove. He was not
happy and his feet were flailing in the air as he growled his
displeasure. “Step up!” he demanded. I gave him my finger to grasp
and raised him up but the box came with him. I couldn’t resist…I
flipped them both around so Pickles was on his feet, wearing the
box on his back. He had no idea what to do and stood still as a
statue. Slowly, he took a few steps and started to trot across the
cushions but all I could see was a spastic little box, zig zagging
across the couch.

I finally rescued him and he proceeded to
attack the culprit. He looked like a cobra with wings splayed and
neck elongated as he struck the box with his beak in quick, short
spurts. He grabbed it and threw it across the couch, went after it
and tossed it again and it landed on his head. Bird and box tumbled
across the cushions until Pickles emerged the victor and tossed it,
once and for all, to the floor.

There’s one thing that Pickles picked up
almost as soon as we got him. In the mornings, Neil always gets up
before me, feeds Pickles, makes my coffee and sets it next to the
computer in the kitchen and yells “Cawwwwfeeeee. Come and get your
CAAAwwwfeeeee.” Or, if I’m ready to get up earlier than he expects,
I yell from my bed, “Cawwwwfee” and he gets it ready for me. I
don’t deserve that man.

One morning, I heard the usual singsong call
for coffee so I got up, went to the washroom then sat myself down
at the computer and reached for my coffee. But there is no coffee.
What the heck? Then I hear “Good morning!” and I look through the
window between the kitchen and living room and there’s Pickles,
hanging on the cage bars with one talon and waving at me with the
other. “Want out. Want some breakfast”. I look past the cage and
there’s Neil, sound asleep on the couch. It had been Pickles
calling“Cawwwfeeee”I

Neil’s voice. Not only had he called me for
coffee but he’d also made the tinkling sound of the stirring
spoon.

Pickles has fooled Neil too. If Neil’s in
another room, Pickles will call out as if it’s me in bed, calling
for coffee. He does it quietly, as if it’s coming from down the
hall and behind the bedroom door. I don’t know how many times Neil
has opened the bedroom door and told me my coffee’s getting cold
when I was still sound asleep.

Pickles had become a constant source of
entertainment and a wonderful companion. We seldom kept him caged,
preferring to interact with him most of the day. His wonderful
sense of humor always left you wanting more and we were happy to
include him in all family activities.

Chapter 2

Pickles Goes to Work

Right from the beginning, Pickles accompanied
us to the fly shop most days. It had always been the plan to have
him there with us because we worked almost every day and since
Pickles seemed to have settled in quite nicely, we felt a change of
scenery would be fine for him. As it turned out, Pickles was in his
glory. Since he loved people, he seldom bored of all the
interaction from customers. It was obviously the reason he learned
to talk so quickly—the more he talked, the more he could abuse
everyone who walked in the door.

Within the first few days of being at the
shop, he started making the sound of the phone ringing and
answering with “Logan Lake Fly Shop.”

In the beginning, Pickles was placed on a
wooden cross made of branches, which were held up with a Christmas
tree stand. It was soon apparent that this just wouldn’t do. He was
bored and constantly sliding down to the floor where he could be
easily trampled by customers, or us. In the next few months, there
were a series of set-ups for him until we settled on a cage
surrounded by branches that were drilled into the walls. This gave
him a play station with lots of hanging toys and the cage was where
he went to sleep or eat. He was never locked in the cage unless we
had to leave briefly for lunch or supplies. Pickles was usually
clipped and seldom flew except a little when he was startled and
even then, he basically dropped like a rock.

Within a few weeks, Pickles had developed
quite the talking ability. Within months, that ability exploded. He
knew that the more he spoke, the more attention he got. He was
shooting for the center of the universe.

While owning and operating a fly shop, a
large part of our job was to provide fishing reports and
suggestions on what type of flies are most effective at the time.
There are literally thousands of different variations and names of
flies but the only one Pickles learned during all the time he spent
in the shop, was the "Woolly Bugger". A popular fly and spoken a
lot in the store so Pickles picked up on it up right away,
obviously thinking what a cool sound. Perfectly understandable. All
the other popular flies were boring words such as Mayflies,
Damsels, Dragonflies etc.

At first, he only liked the 'bugger' part of
the name so it was inserted into everything, such as Hello bugger,
it's raining like a bugger, poop on the bugger, daddy bugger, eat
your bugger supper, knick-knack patty whack give a dog a
bugger.”

Finally he started saying the whole name and
when customers jokingly ask, "What's working Pickles?" they were
rewarded with the answer, "Woolly Bugger!"

The last guy, after being completely floored
by an intelligent response to his question, proceeded to grab a
handful of Woolly Buggers from the bin and dump them on the
counter. As he was reaching in his wallet to pay for them, he
suddenly looked at Pickles, then at me and remarked, "I can't
believe I'm actually taking fishing advice from a BIRD." But even
more astonishing was that the guy came back 2 days later, floating
2 feet off the ground in excitement and announced that he’d just
had the BEST fishing EVER!

There’s a good joke that fits Pickles to a
tee and it goes like this…

(A lady was walking down the street to work
and she saw a parrot on a perch in front of a pet store.

The parrot said to her, "Hey lady, you are
really ugly." Well, the lady is furious!

She stormed past the store to her work.

On the way home she saw the same parrot and
it said to her, "Hey lady, you are really ugly." She was incredibly
ticked now.

The next day the same parrot again said to
her, "Hey lady, you are really ugly."

The lady was so ticked that she went into the
store and said that she would sue the store and kill the bird. The
store manager apologized profusely and promised he would make sure
the parrot didn't say it again.

When the lady walked past the store that day
after work the parrot called to her, "Hey lady."

She paused and said,” Yes?"

The bird said, "You know.")

Pickles has the same snide attitude. A group
of 4 guys were bantering back and forth withPickles as they were
shopping. Suddenly Pickles got quiet, climbed to his highest perch
on the play stand, surveyed the room then demanded "Everybody go
home!" Everyone laughed and ignored his command so he barked,
"Let's go, let's go, let's go!"

Pickles asked another customer "Wanna sing a
song?" so the lady politely obliged with the song "Rockin’ Robin"
to which Pickles snapped "Wanna GOOD song!"

Then there was the guy who kept nagging
Pickles to talk while he was busy preening with his back to us.
Finally, he stopped preening long enough to peer over his shoulder
and tell the guy to "Go poop on a bug".

We tried and tried to get pickles to say,
"How's the fishing?" a polite greeting when people walked in the
door but, no way. He liked to greet people with "Hello bugger!" and
when they left, it was, "Bye bye. Be gone bugger."

Instead of asking people if they want to buy
a fly, it was "Wanna buy a bean? Huh? HUH?"

Now and then, Pickles would get cranky. Slow
days were unacceptable and he would start in on me…

Pickles: Wanna go home?

Me: Not yet Pickles.

Pickles: Step up, let’s go home.

Me: Pretty soon.

Pickles: Let’s go home and get some supper.
Doncha want some supper?

Me: I’m not hungry.

Pickles: Arncha hungry?

Me: We’re NOT going HOME Pickles!

Pickles: Brat.

A parrot in the fly shop turned out to be
good for business. Tourists and fly fishermen from around the globe
had heard about Pickles and usually made a point of dropping by. At
times it was frustrating though. People sometimes hung around a
little too much and often they would want to teach him new words or
sounds, which we didn’t want him copying. Children would hang
around too long, taking up room at the counter or keeping us from
getting work done. We had to watch them like hawks for fear that
items would go missing.

One couple dropped by and while they were
shopping around, their 2 kids aged about 3 and 5 tore around the
shop, screeching their little heads off. Suddenly, I was hearing it
in stereo—the kids on one side of the counter, Pickles on the
other. After awhile, the mother came up to pay for her items and
while we were making the transaction, she kept cringing at Pickles’
screeches. “Doesn’t that bird drive you crazy with those sounds?”
she asked. I replied, “Do your kids drive you crazy with the sounds
they
make?” She looked offended and said “Of course not.” I
informed her that Pickles was merely mimicking the sounds that her
children had been making for the last 20 minutes and that I would
be stuck with those sounds for months. Indeed, 7 years later and he
still makes those sounds now and then.

Most people didn’t know what kind of bird
Pickles was. Once, a lady leaned on the counter staring at him and
said “Soooo, what’s with the pigeon?” Pickles was often mistaken
for a pigeon. Usually, I was happy to answer questions about
Pickles and parrots in general but I was getting a little tired of
the same old questions, day in and day out.

We were usually pretty busy in the shop but
there were some down times, especially during winter. I was making
most of Pickles toys by now and often assembled them in the shop
during slow periods. People started noticing and soon I was getting
requests to make toys for their birds. Before long, I had a little
side business going and a window display of bird toys for sale. I
was making a small income from it but it became time consuming and
I wasn’t enjoying it anymore. It was around this time that
Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans and somebody posted on a bird
forum about all the lost and homeless parrots. Rescue centres were
begging for food and toys so I packed up almost all the toys I had
and shipped them down there. Since then, I still make toys but only
for Pickles and I’m back to enjoying it.

All in all, Pickles was great company at work
and he was happy to entertain both us and our customers. It worked
out well and Pickles didn’t need to be left home alone all day,
every day. He’d get a little needy for attention on slow days and
demand to “Go for a walk”. So we’d pick him up, carry him around
the shop for a while then set him on top of a long display case in
the window where he could holler at people outside. Later on, after
learning how to bark, he would run back and forth barking at anyone
who passed. It was amusing to watch the double takes from people
who glanced in, expecting to see a dog. But all in all, he was
content to sit quietly and nap or preen when the shop was
empty.

One time, Pickles was startled off his play
station when someone banged on the wall in the store next to us.
Now, Pickles didn’t realize that his flight feathers have grown in
enough for him to fly at will and after being startled, he took off
like a shot, banking and turning like a pro. I think he was as
shocked as I that he could be so air borne.

His flight started off well, he soared all
the way to the other end of the shop, veering through the curved
aisle way and around the clothes rack, disappearing from my
sight.

"Pickles?" I called, "Where are you?’ No
answer. "Pickles?" I call again. I hear a very strained little
voice from yonder saying "Huh?" Then silence. I go searching for
him and finally I hear a very quiet "Anybody home?" Good, his
answer narrows the search down a bit.

I get to the end of the shop and can't see
him anywhere; I figure he would have landed on the floor somewhere
so I'm looking under the racks and shelving. As I stand there,
completely baffled and parrotless, I hear "Hello?" right next to my
ear. I turn and there's the little goof, hanging on a peg amidst
the dubbing materials on the wall. He's suspended upside down, with
his little red twinker up in the air. "Well, this is a fine pickle
you've gotten yourself into there Mr. Pickles. Need help?" I ask.
As he hung there like a bat, he replied meekly "Give a dog a bone."
The old saying immediately came to me, something like "throw a poor
guy a bone"; as in help the poor guy out.

So I did. And as I was righting his majesty
up, I couldn't help but notice the grey fly tying material he had
landed on and realized that Pickles’ feathers would make a great
substitute! Not long after that, we developed a great fly with his
molted feathers and down and dubbed it the Pickle Fly. It caught
fish and it was in demand but unfortunately, there was a limit to
how many we could tie up as Pickles could only drop a limited
amount of feathers.

One day, he climbed down from his play stand
at the shop and I was about to pick him up but decided what the
heck, let's see what he'll do. He trotted around the counter,
straight down the first aisle and made a beeline for the fishing
nets. He climbed up the handle of one leaning against the wall and
promptly jumped into the net part. Not a smart move. Anyone who's
ever tried to walk on a rope net knows this is difficult. In the
end, I had to pick the net up by the handle with Pickles tangled in
the mesh and try to unravel his feet. His struggles made it worse
so I laid the net on the floor to free him.