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Now That The Owl's Gone, What The Hell Am I Gonna Do With A Parrot?

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Dallas Boyd
Dallas Boyd

They say life is about the moments that sneak up on you. There’s no such thing in anyone’s life as an unimportant day. That most of the time, nothing wonderful happens, and if you don’t enjoy the simple things, the chances are, you’re not going to be very happy most of the time. That the important moments are measured by the stray dogs that amble into your life, sniff around, and never leave. Or in my case, pygmy owls and large green parrots.

I met Little Owlie the other day. I guess he’d fallen out of an old woodpecker hole (which they apparently like to live in) and was sitting on the road looking startled and ridiculously small. This lasted for a good two minutes before a nasty old Tom Cat jumped out of the bushes and grabbed him. I chased after the Son of a Bitch cat, who dropped Owlie quick smart. Owlie was shitting his pants, so I put him in a box and took him back to my house for a little quiet time, which I believe he appreciated, as he accepted a mango peace offering and then passed out dead asleep in a nook between the couch cushions. All tuckered out! That night, when I returned home from work, I spotted him perched on top of my curtain rod in the kitchen, resolving any queries I’d had regarding his ability to fly. I pretended I didn’t know where he was, which pleased him, as he was able to spy on me very professionally.

Last night I felt obliged to let Owlie go, as he was in good spirits and convinced he could now outsmart the multitude of scabby cats in the neighbourhood - provided there were no more near fatal nose dives out of abandoned woodpecker holes. I reminded Owlie of these important stipulations as I took him outside to say goodbye. Promising he’d be good, Owlie took off, flying straight into the wall of the neighbours house, smack, fell to the ground, and sat on the ground looking dazed, once again, in cat territory. We tried again. This time I carefully pointed Owlie in the direction of some trees and hoped he’d make an effort to at least aim for one. He flew off awkwardly and kind of crash landed into a bush. I guess that’s as much as you can hope for. But I really miss the little guy.

Less than 24 hours after releasing Owlie and praying for the best, I was moping around my house listening to slit-your-wrist anthems by Tool and Radiohead when I looked over and saw, staring at me through the screen door, a large green parrot. I couldn’t believe it. Could I possibly be an actual bird whisperer? I opened the screen door and the parrot strolled right on in, indicating: “Hi, I’m a friend of Owlie. I understand you help birds?”

As it followed me around the house, squirting out the occasional noisy poop, I wondered what the hell I was going to do with Parrot Pants. Owlie was one thing, being from the wild, but Parrot Pants is clearly someone’s runaway pet.

Before too long I heard voices calling in the neighbourhood, I assume looking for Parrot Pants, wondering where their bird had escaped too. I looked at Parrot Pants, who stared right back at me, not the least bit concerned. I opened the door and tried to lure him out. He hid in my bedroom and wouldn’t come out, freezing in motion and pretending to be invisible. Owlie could get away with this act, being an actual small brown midget (I did actually lose him in my house a few times). Parrot Pants on the other hand, is fifty times larger and bright green.

I eventually convinced Parrot Pants to come and stick his beak out the front door and cock his ear, listening to the people calling his name (which I think may be Ollie or Ronny). He grunted with an indignant  "I don't think so" attitude, spun around and strode back into the house.

Now I don’t know what to do! Should I tell the owners where their bird is? But what if they mistreat Parrot Pants and he’s finally escaped, Parrotshank Redemption style. I can just imagine him squawking at me, “JUDAS!” as they drag him away, locking him in a smelly tiny cage with horrible dry biscuits. I gave parrot pants some books to climb up on, so he could reach a rung on my chair legs and perch there, looking a little bit too pleased with himself.

I don't know... I guess... I'll sleep on it???


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