Day Four

We’ve reached day #4 of the David Cassidy hunger strike. He’s beginning to look a little gaunt, and gray in color. Denise thinks he may have snacked on some snow from a nearby branch when we weren’t looking, whereas I contend his only sustenance during his time in the tree has come by sneaking nips of brandy from a flask hidden inside his coat. Either way, we may have to call in a doctor soon. Or a lumberjack.

Nevertheless, I’ve found that I much prefer the silence of his company to the inescapable din now present inside the house. If only this morning’s new additions to our avian menagerie had come with a lifetime supply of ear plugs. I don’t see why anyone would ever want even one of these birds, let alone four. Yet, I now find myself the proud owner of a quartet of parrots, each ceaselessly yammering away on its own Bluetooth.

“Polly want a cracker. And a pizza, for delivery.”

I have no idea whom any of them are talking to, but one seems to think he’s a stock trader. All he ever says is, “Buy! Buy! Buy!” or “Sell! Sell! Sell!” Another is having what sounds like a heated argument with its mother. With yet another, if I didn’t know it was a parrot, I’d swear I was listening to an Italian mafia don discussing the storage of stolen goods. But the last one... the last one I truly despise: There are only so many times I can hear, “Can you hear me now?” before I feel the distinct need to strangle someone.¹

I decided I’d try to channel my anger into something constructive, and grabbed some tools from the garage. I’d intended to pry the shells off of those poor little doves so they could fly free, but the moment I tried placing my hand on either one of them, they tried to peck my fingers off. Apparently they’ve gotten rather attached to their adoptive homes. I guess it makes sense, as they do provide decent protection from the cat and dog. Not that the cat’s going to come anywhere near them, with the foursome of parrots squawking their heads off, and Sonya often barking in reply; she’s got herself snugly ensconced in blankets upstairs.

Out on the porch, the hens may be wearing maid outfits, but they sure know how to make a mess. And I think they’ve caught whatever ailment David Cassidy has, since none of them have eaten any of the feed I’ve laid down for them. Interestingly enough, however, it seems that one of them has somehow developed a French accent.²

If I get any more birds tomorrow, I may just have to go out and purchase a real cat to help thin their numbers. Anyone know the going price for a Bengal tiger?


¹ I've tried covering their cages, too, but that doesn’t silence them, either. Once swathed in darkness, the parrots only get louder. I figure they probably all signed up for one of those Night & Weekend calling plans.
² Le cluck.