Friday, July 20
So, as promised, the story of how I came to own a parrot. (We won't get into how long ago I promised it....) But first, a visual aid!
So back in November, shortly after deciding to move to San Francisco, my brother and his girlfriend bought a Jenday conure. Bro's gf already had cockatiels and loved them, but they were looking for something a bit more personable and intelligent. They brought him to visit and I was most fascinated and envious. I'd been interested in parrots for years, ever since happening across Irene Pepperberg's research, and had even looked into getting myself an African grey before concluding that I had neither the money, the time, or the right to commit to such a resource-intensive bird (they are very, very smart birds, and thus about the same as buying yourself a chimpanzee. Or a three-year-old who's going to stay three for about, oh, 60 years.) I didn't know much about the smaller, less demanding parrots, and hadn't expected them to be so tame nor so clever.
But bro went off to San Francisco, and I blathered on about parrots for about a month until Dan and my mother told me I was nuts to think of buying such an expensive pet, and life did its thing.
Without getting into details, let's say that the move to San Francisco didn't work out for my bro. GF's promised job turned out to be working for rich snobs who backed out on the housing they'd agreed to provide, drove her to distraction with their demands, and started advertising her job the minute her agreed trial period was up (without telling her they'd done it -- pity she found the ad on their website.) Both of them found themselves commuting much further than they'd expected and in the all-too-common San Francisco situation of making twice as much money but spending three times the amount they had elsewhere. They got tired, and as a result they had no time for their parrot, who started developing the usual bad behaviors of neglected parrots -- mostly screaming his little head off all hours of the day. If you've never heard a parrot scream, dear gods, can they scream. Not a noise you want in your house, much less in a small suburban California community.
By the time they moved back home, about six weeks ago, they were both really broke and sick to death of the damned bored screaming parrot.
Enter me, my soft heart, and poor Dan's inability to say no to stuff that makes me happy.
Yeah, I took their parrot home -- supposedly on trial, but, eh, yeah. Got attached. Dan is less attached than resigned, but he is a sweet boy who spoils me. Particularly considering that he'll be living with the birdie for the next 25 years.
So, I have a parrot. His name is Alfie. He still screams, but in relatively normal, manageable amounts, probably because he now lives with a human who carries him around on her shoulder whenever she's home, feeds him grapes, makes him toys, and generally spoils him rotten.
A month or so along, I am still utterly and completely thrilled by this. We're not supposed to have pets in our apartment, you see, but a bird -- a bird sneaks by. And he's a cool pet! He does tricks! And plays in my hair! And talks! (Only one clear phrase, so far, but he's got another far enough along that I'm catching recognizable words, and I suspect he's working on one or two more.)
Twenty-five years is a long time, and these birds are not cheap, and left to myself I probably would have chickened out on buying one. But sometimes life is just good to you.
(This post brought to you despite the help of Alfie the conure. This would be the day he decided to be fascinated by the keyboard.)
So back in November, shortly after deciding to move to San Francisco, my brother and his girlfriend bought a Jenday conure. Bro's gf already had cockatiels and loved them, but they were looking for something a bit more personable and intelligent. They brought him to visit and I was most fascinated and envious. I'd been interested in parrots for years, ever since happening across Irene Pepperberg's research, and had even looked into getting myself an African grey before concluding that I had neither the money, the time, or the right to commit to such a resource-intensive bird (they are very, very smart birds, and thus about the same as buying yourself a chimpanzee. Or a three-year-old who's going to stay three for about, oh, 60 years.) I didn't know much about the smaller, less demanding parrots, and hadn't expected them to be so tame nor so clever.
But bro went off to San Francisco, and I blathered on about parrots for about a month until Dan and my mother told me I was nuts to think of buying such an expensive pet, and life did its thing.
Without getting into details, let's say that the move to San Francisco didn't work out for my bro. GF's promised job turned out to be working for rich snobs who backed out on the housing they'd agreed to provide, drove her to distraction with their demands, and started advertising her job the minute her agreed trial period was up (without telling her they'd done it -- pity she found the ad on their website.) Both of them found themselves commuting much further than they'd expected and in the all-too-common San Francisco situation of making twice as much money but spending three times the amount they had elsewhere. They got tired, and as a result they had no time for their parrot, who started developing the usual bad behaviors of neglected parrots -- mostly screaming his little head off all hours of the day. If you've never heard a parrot scream, dear gods, can they scream. Not a noise you want in your house, much less in a small suburban California community.
By the time they moved back home, about six weeks ago, they were both really broke and sick to death of the damned bored screaming parrot.
Enter me, my soft heart, and poor Dan's inability to say no to stuff that makes me happy.
Yeah, I took their parrot home -- supposedly on trial, but, eh, yeah. Got attached. Dan is less attached than resigned, but he is a sweet boy who spoils me. Particularly considering that he'll be living with the birdie for the next 25 years.
So, I have a parrot. His name is Alfie. He still screams, but in relatively normal, manageable amounts, probably because he now lives with a human who carries him around on her shoulder whenever she's home, feeds him grapes, makes him toys, and generally spoils him rotten.
A month or so along, I am still utterly and completely thrilled by this. We're not supposed to have pets in our apartment, you see, but a bird -- a bird sneaks by. And he's a cool pet! He does tricks! And plays in my hair! And talks! (Only one clear phrase, so far, but he's got another far enough along that I'm catching recognizable words, and I suspect he's working on one or two more.)
Twenty-five years is a long time, and these birds are not cheap, and left to myself I probably would have chickened out on buying one. But sometimes life is just good to you.
(This post brought to you despite the help of Alfie the conure. This would be the day he decided to be fascinated by the keyboard.)
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