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

  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.

  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 a
nd 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.

  An hour goes by, then another. No more action. Doesn't matter. The scenery is spectacular and wildlife abounds. Ducks with adorable little ducklings learning to dive and popping back up out of the water like little rubber balls. Bossy geese and their goslings. A muskrat momentarily entangled in your floating line. No bear, deer or moose but then you already saw a bear and her cub and a white tailed deer on the drive in. Only one fish landed but it wasn't even the highlight. It was just one great part of this most memorable day.

  On the way in, dragging that same leech again, a nice little 14 incher is brought to the boat—perfect for the fry pan! Back to camp and a fresh air nap. Salivating as the fresh trout sizzles in the fire, wafting it's delicate scent your way now and then. Paprika, garlic, onion-fried potatoes to accompany the fish and an ice-cold beer.

  The sky erupts into brilliant colors of blood reds and fiery oranges as the sun retires for the evening. Red sky at night, fishermen's delight—a delightful sign of the next day to come. The owl in the tree overhead hoots softly as you drift off in your lawn chair thinking—life just doesn't get any better than this.