Pistache started with the noisy screeching when my son, Bow, and Little Flea were here Sunday night for supper. Bow, who is one of the very few able to approach that bad tempered fowl, remarked that she was more loud and annoying than usual.
“I don’t know why,” I told him. “Her cage is clean, she had food and fresh water and she got her seeds already. She has been like this for a couple of days now. Hard on the nerves!”
“What’s that all about, Pistache?” he asked her. Although he stayed seated, his chair was close to the cage. Hearing her name she quieted, cocking her head to listen, just uttering a couple of peeps in recognition, until he turned away from her. And the squawking started again.
Pistache is a Quaker parrot, so it’s expected that she be quite social, and very vocal. She is from a rescue, adopted by my ex DIL when she was approximately 9 years old, and we know nothing about her life before that. When she came to live with me, it took her awhile to warm up to the hand that feeds, waters and cares for her, but she’ll be nice to both my boys when she’s in the mood. Anyone else is regarded as an intruder, and an unwelcome one at that. Her bites can hurt; she can draw blood on occasion.
I wondered aloud if maybe she was missing the hockey games which are delayed for the Olympic period. “I usually roll her cage over beside my easy chair when I’m watching the games,” I said. “She’ll hang off her cage and nibble on my shoulder or cheek while I’m sitting there. She gets a vocabulary lesson at the same time, especially if our team is playing badly,” He knew what I was saying; I tend to get carried away by my passion for the game. My couch coaching is a family standing joke.
“Maybe the lack of that attention,” Bow agreed.
“But I’m more here than inside my back office recently,” I added. “I even brought my laptop out so that I can keep her and the beasts company while I write. She sees me more now than she ever did. True, I’m not exactly paying attention just to her, but at least we’re all together in the same room.”
While we were chatting, my Little Flea had wandered into the kitchen. From the corner of my eye, I saw her walk past her dad with the bottle of dried fruit treats. I watched as she opened it and took out a piece, then moved towards Pistache’s cage. “Miko, what are you doing?” I asked. She didn’t answer, and continued her route, holding out the fruit in her hand.
“Hey, she’ll bite! Watch it!” Her dad exclaimed. Miko ignored him too, instead she went closer to Pistache and made her offering. The bird leaned towards the child and, ever so gently, took the fruit in her beak, then settled back to quietly eat it. My son and I looked at each other.
“She didn’t bite her!” my son laughed, his tone unbelieving.
“No, she didn’t.” I agreed, surprised too, but mostly relieved. Miko didn’t even look at us when she walked back towards the kitchen to replace the jar.
“She’s quiet now.” She told us. I’m caught her dad’s eye again and shrugged.
“Her explanation for everything,” I nodded. “Her magic.”
And we both SMILED
Sending it out to y’all, brimming with magic!
LUV FROM THE BUSH IN QUEBEC
Tales from the Bush in Quebec 