was suddenly closer than it had last appeared and our bird was miraculously within arm’s reach. He seemed more distant than ever when I arrived at the last step. The edge of the top platform pressed sharply against my shin, stimulating various bad ideas whirling through my brain, including spraying him with a hose or wrapping the hose around the branch and pulling it down to where I could grab him. Any plan that involved a hose somehow seemed appealing.
Linda directed my attention to a long, thin branch that branched off Ollie’s branch. “Can you get hold of that?” she asked me.
“I think I’m okay,” I told her, then I realized it wasn’t my safety that concerned her at the moment.
“To pull his branch down!” she shouted.
My legs oscillated as I climbed to the top platform of the ladder, which was emblazoned with an orange sticker depicting the teetering silhouette of a foolish man with an X stricken over his body, along with the warning DO NOT STAND ON TOP STEP . Wondering why it was called a top step if it wasn’t a step at all, I hugged the tree trunk with one arm, stretching myself into an impossible geometric shape in order to snag the tip of the dangling tendril. “Got it,” I told Linda with more confidence than I was feeling. The branch was a match for my own physique, far too weak and spindly to be of much help.It barely budged the parent branch when I gave it a healthy yank. By pulling it in a waltz rhythm, however, I managed to get the tree limb swaying a little. I gradually increased the momentum until, at the far end where Ollie sat, the swaying was converted to a crack-the-whip bounce that snapped him squawking into the air.
Awkwardly stretched between branch and ladder like a wishbone, I was unable to turn my head to follow Ollie’s flight path without losing my footing and joining his descent. He was a green blur at the edge of my vision as he shot off the tree limb and began an arc toward the ground. Linda scrambled past me. I felt rather than saw her brief pursuit of him across the litter of last year’s fallen leaves, then heard his indignant squawk as she scooped him up.
“I got him!” Linda told me.
“Is he okay?” I called out in a pinched voice, as I slowly reeled myself in.
Clutching Ollie in her hand, she thrust him under the open front of her jacket and rushed toward the house. “Are you okay?” she asked him. I realized that he was in perfect shape, none the worse for his brush with disaster, when I heard her cry out in pain. Happy and healthy, Ollie gave her a healthy bite.
He wasn’t grateful, of course. He simply took it for granted that when he squawked, we would cater to his whim. It didn’t matter if he was stranded on top of the highest oak or merely wanted another spaghetti noodle to nibble on, then fling at us. He gave the order, we obeyed—and were typically punished anyway. We must have been masochists to allow such an imperious creature into our house. Little did we know that his willfulness was all too typical of birds.
CHAPTER 3
Stanley Sue’s Identity Crisis
By all logic, Ollie should have thoroughly discouraged us from ever owning another parrot. He had exactly the opposite effect. Whenever Linda and I went on vacation to dream destinations like Grindstone City, Michigan, or Wisconsin’s House on the Rock, rather than inflicting Ollie on the housesitter who looked after our pets and princely possessions, we’d board him at Jonah’s Ark. It was our way of getting back at the people who sold him to us. While dropping him off at Jonah’s, which had inexplicably moved to the cramped back room of an office-supplies wholesaler, we found ourselves mesmerized by parrots that had appealing personalities. When we ventured into bird shows at local motels, dealers thrilled us with live birds that didn’t bite.
We wanted one of these. Sadder, wiser, and beaten down by Ollie, I did actual research this time. After much thumbing through bird magazines
Linda directed my attention to a long, thin branch that branched off Ollie’s branch. “Can you get hold of that?” she asked me.
“I think I’m okay,” I told her, then I realized it wasn’t my safety that concerned her at the moment.
“To pull his branch down!” she shouted.
My legs oscillated as I climbed to the top platform of the ladder, which was emblazoned with an orange sticker depicting the teetering silhouette of a foolish man with an X stricken over his body, along with the warning DO NOT STAND ON TOP STEP . Wondering why it was called a top step if it wasn’t a step at all, I hugged the tree trunk with one arm, stretching myself into an impossible geometric shape in order to snag the tip of the dangling tendril. “Got it,” I told Linda with more confidence than I was feeling. The branch was a match for my own physique, far too weak and spindly to be of much help.It barely budged the parent branch when I gave it a healthy yank. By pulling it in a waltz rhythm, however, I managed to get the tree limb swaying a little. I gradually increased the momentum until, at the far end where Ollie sat, the swaying was converted to a crack-the-whip bounce that snapped him squawking into the air.
Awkwardly stretched between branch and ladder like a wishbone, I was unable to turn my head to follow Ollie’s flight path without losing my footing and joining his descent. He was a green blur at the edge of my vision as he shot off the tree limb and began an arc toward the ground. Linda scrambled past me. I felt rather than saw her brief pursuit of him across the litter of last year’s fallen leaves, then heard his indignant squawk as she scooped him up.
“I got him!” Linda told me.
“Is he okay?” I called out in a pinched voice, as I slowly reeled myself in.
Clutching Ollie in her hand, she thrust him under the open front of her jacket and rushed toward the house. “Are you okay?” she asked him. I realized that he was in perfect shape, none the worse for his brush with disaster, when I heard her cry out in pain. Happy and healthy, Ollie gave her a healthy bite.
He wasn’t grateful, of course. He simply took it for granted that when he squawked, we would cater to his whim. It didn’t matter if he was stranded on top of the highest oak or merely wanted another spaghetti noodle to nibble on, then fling at us. He gave the order, we obeyed—and were typically punished anyway. We must have been masochists to allow such an imperious creature into our house. Little did we know that his willfulness was all too typical of birds.
CHAPTER 3
Stanley Sue’s Identity Crisis
By all logic, Ollie should have thoroughly discouraged us from ever owning another parrot. He had exactly the opposite effect. Whenever Linda and I went on vacation to dream destinations like Grindstone City, Michigan, or Wisconsin’s House on the Rock, rather than inflicting Ollie on the housesitter who looked after our pets and princely possessions, we’d board him at Jonah’s Ark. It was our way of getting back at the people who sold him to us. While dropping him off at Jonah’s, which had inexplicably moved to the cramped back room of an office-supplies wholesaler, we found ourselves mesmerized by parrots that had appealing personalities. When we ventured into bird shows at local motels, dealers thrilled us with live birds that didn’t bite.
We wanted one of these. Sadder, wiser, and beaten down by Ollie, I did actual research this time. After much thumbing through bird magazines
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