Pickles The Parrot: A Humorous Look At Life With An African Grey (9 page)

We decided he should be placed back in the
nest, but which one? Neil got a long stick, fashioned a bucket to
it, raised the crow to the lowest nest and tipped him in. I don’t
know if we placed him in the wrong nest and some adults threw him
out, or if he fell out on his own, but the next morning he was back
on the ground. Perhaps there was something wrong with him. The
other babies had already flown the coop, maybe there was something
wrong with his legs and he couldn’t stand in preparation for
flight. Maybe he was weak and the parents had rejected him and
thrown him from the nest but then, why were they dive-bombing
us?

We decided to let nature take its course and
left him on the ground. I had taken another job and had to leave
for the day but I received a call at work—Neil was concerned. The
weather had reached 40 celsius, the crow was in the sun all day and
he was afraid a kid or a dog would get at him. He wanted to bring
the crow to the RV and put him in Pickles outdoor cage, beneath the
canopy for protection until we found the proper authorities to take
him. I agreed, even though that meant Pickles wouldn’t be able to
go outside for a while, and that the cage would need a good
bleaching afterwards.

Neil wrapped the crow in a towel and carried
him off with a half dozen crows following in frenzy. They perched
in the trees next to the RV and complained all day while Neil went
on with his work outside. In the meantime, I spent some time at
work researching crows and looking for phone numbers of people to
call and Neil spoke with the head guy at the WildLife Park. I
couldn’t find any place in the Kamloops area that would take a
injured crow, even the Wildlife Park. They said they don’t do
crows, and that it wasn’t a good idea to rehabilitate them back to
the wild because they become too friendly, harass people for food
in the Park Café, or get so friendly that someone takes them home
for a pet. To boot, I found out that it’s illegal for us to be in
possession of a wild crow. I called the Ministry of Environment and
explained the situation. They didn’t know who would take a crow but
I was given permission to take care of him until we could release
him.

In the end, we had no choice but to nurse him
until he was strong enough to fly. We just couldn’t bring ourselves
to leave him in the elements to die, even though nature should take
care of it. To us, it wasn’t ‘nature’ in an RV Park packed with
people and dogs. He wouldn’t stand a chance. We named him Parker,
after the RV ‘Park” and took on the parental obligations.

He was placed in the cage on the deck,
beneath the awning and against the outer wall. On the other side of
the wall, was Pickles’ cage and play stand. Pickles couldn’t see
Parker, but he could hear him. The two of them cawed back and forth
to each other, or at least Pickles would answer Parker’s caws each
time.

The first 3 or 4 days, Parker just lay on his
side on the bottom of the cage on a bed of towels. We continued to
feed him with pliers because it made it easier and because he
should never be conditioned to human hands. We never pet him, or
held him, and even tried to keep talking to a minimum. As a result,
Parker never did learn to like us, or trust us.

We tried a variety of foods and he ate most
readily—soppy bread, wieners, potatoes, fruit and veggies, worms
and bugs—but I think his favorite was the dry dog food, which was
loaded with protein. The WildLife guy told us that bread held no
nutrition for him but it’s the only way we could get water in him,
he was too young to drink from a bowl. We were afraid to use a
dropper as young crows can swallow wrongly and end up choking, so
the wet bread got the water down.

By now, we knew the difference between a
nestling and a fledgling. Nestlings can’t fly and belong in the
nest, fledglings leave the nest and spend days on the ground, under
the careful eye of the parents, while learning how to fly. Often
people try to rescue them, thinking they are abandoned or injured.
Parker was a nestling who wouldn’t be able to take care himself and
the parents wouldn’t be able to protect him.

Eventually, he was attempting to stand up but
still wasn’t able to perch on a cage branch. The cage wouldn’t
support his wingspan so we built a screened enclosure on the ground
and filled one side with a pile of branches so that when he was
ready, he could perch on them.

His parents, and the extended family, still
hung around in the trees above to keep an eye on him and they
constantly crowed their displeasure with us. I had read that
youngsters of previous years would stay with their parents, helping
them raise subsequent batches, or clutches, of babies. Our days
were filled with the cacophony of crows, including Pickles.

As Parker got better at standing, we would
release him from the cage for short periods of time. The first time
we did, he tried to bolt but he was like a little drunken soldier
who could only stagger round and round in circles, falling now and
then on his side. He was eventually able to fly in short bursts
until finally, he was able to land in a tree. He spent the first
night there and the next day was able to fly a couple of hundred
feet. We got busy at the park and when we returned, there was no
sign of him. He’d flown the coop.

He had never learned to trust us and whenever
we appeared, he would try to move away from us. After he flew away,
he wasn’t interested in returning for food or companionship; he
just wanted the hell out of there. After that, we would catch
sightings of him. We knew it was he because he was smaller than the
rest in the group and his caw had always sounded more like a duck
quack. He also drank from puddles better than the other juvenile
crows he hung with, having to learn a little quicker in
captivity.

We’ve always wondered how he faired and we
now pay closer attention to all crows. I’ve always loved them, and
like a stupid teenager, I once captured a friendly crow and kept
him in the basement. Somebody had given me a large monkey cage (no
idea why they had one) but mostly one of us kids would free him to
fly around and interact with us. He was friendly, affectionate and
fun but he sure made a mess of the basement. My mom eventually
talked me into freeing him by making me feel guilty about taming a
wild bird, that he needed to be with other crows and free to fly.
But Parker had given me a new appreciation for these intelligent
creatures that are loaded with personality.

Summer continued and it was a scorcher. The
RV had air-conditioning and I stole back there every chance I got.
One day I decided to take a nap while Neil was doing the weed
whacking and just as I was dozing off, there came a knock at the
door. I decided to ignore it but Pickles, the social butterfly,
opts for answering the door. Pickles has 3 voices—mine, Neil’s and
his own—all sound naturally human.

Pickles: “Hello?”

Man: “Hello?”

Pickles: “Hellooooo!”

Man: “I need to check in, please.”

Pickles: “We’re out of beans!”

Man: “Excuse me?”

Pickles: “Fresh out of beans!”

Man: Silence.

Pickles: Silence.

Me: Dying a slow death.

Man: “Can I check in please?”

Pickles: “Well, hello there!”

Me, muttering under my breath: “For the love
of God Pickles! Please, PLEASE, shut the hell UP!”

Man’s wife join’s Man…

Wife: “Isn’t anybody home, honey?”

Pickles: “Everybody’s home!”

Man: (very quietly) “I think there’s a
mentally handicapped person inside.”

Me, to myself: “Oh great. Just great.”

Pickles: (sings song) “Ring, ring, ring,
ring, ring, ring, ring BANANA PHONE! Boop boop ba doop”

The sound of footsteps walking away.

Me: “Oh, thank God”.

Pickles: Not yet finished and spotting them
out the window lets go a loud wolf whistle and calls out “Bye-bye
baby!”

It’s over, they’re gone, but I’m still
cringing.

The next day I’m sitting outside the trailer
(my long hair still in a bird’s nest, raccoon eyes from last
night's mascara, teeth still in a cup next to the bed) having my
morning coffee as they go by, walking their dog. They spot me and
suddenly pick up speed, heading away.

I’m tempted to yell out “I’m not crazy—I own
a parrot!!!”

But, what’s the use. It just…never…ends…

The office/store was only about 100 feet from
our RV and some starlings had built a nest in the eaves. We enjoyed
sitting on our deck, watching them. They were very busy, flying in
and out to feed the babies. As the babies grew older (at least 8 of
them), they’d appear at the opening, chirping and calling for their
parents. One morning they all appeared on the roof outside, jumping
up and down, testing their wings. Suddenly, they all took off in
one fell swoop. Just like that, they had gone exploring only to
return now and then for a few moments until they were gone for
good.

The parents still hung around and we soon
realized they had another batch of babies. More entertainment! But
the store needed a new roof and we knew the contractors would be
starting soon. We hoped the babies would have time to mature but it
wasn’t the case.

They showed up one morning while Neil was in
town and I was preparing for the day. I went outside for my coffee
and to see what would happen. Starlings are considered a nuisance
around there, there’s too many of them and I knew there was nothing
that could be done for them but I wasn’t prepared for what I
saw.

When the crew ripped off the eaves, it was
discovered that the nest went down into the outer walls. A guy was
on a ladder, pulling out huge handful after handful of straw
bedding while another guy was working next to him on the roof. The
first guy came up with a baby dangling by the feet and in the blink
of an eye, the other guy snipped off his head with a tool. I was
horrified. And frozen in place. I wanted to yell at them but I knew
it would do no good, they had a job to do, they couldn’t stop for
birds and the birds were too young to survive on their own. So, I
said nothing. A minute later, the first guy came up with another
baby but the other guy was further away and told him to just throw
it on the roof, that the crows would eat it. I was dying
inside.

The crew knocked off early, only an hour into
the job, and took off in their trucks. I wanted to climb the ladder
and look for the bird but I’m deathly afraid of heights so I just
walked around the building looking for signs of the baby. Neil
arrived while I was looking and I asked him to climb up and check
the roof but he couldn’t find the chick.

I went back to sit on the deck and suddenly,
the two parent starlings appeared from behind the building,
flapping and dancing half off the ground, with the baby running
after them. The three of them ducked into a large bush and for the
rest of the day, the parents were in and out tending to him. The
next day I looked but never saw any sign of them from then on.

I was telling somebody about it later on and
I found out that starlings are actually protected! I learned that
construction comes to a standing halt where nests are concerned! Oh
God, the guilt that set in. I was mortified that I had let this
happen and I’ll never forgive myself. After doing some research on
starlings, I discovered they had great character and intelligence.
They can actually learn to talk and I even watched a video of a
talking pet starling. No need to chastise me, I continuously punish
myself. I was wrong. Dead wrong.

Eventually the roof was completed. It was
gabled so it was cooler in the store now and Pickles enjoyed
hanging out with us, or playing with the hanging toys on his play
stand. One particular day, he was in an especially playful and
talkative mood. He bantered back and forth with us and any
customers who visited.

Pickles is almost always eager to talk to
people but the odd time, he sits like a lump and refuses to display
the slightest hint of his talents. People scoff at our claims of a
bird with over 100 words (at that time) in his vocabulary. No
amount of prodding will make him speak up. It makes us feel a
little bad because the excitement of meeting a real live, talking
parrot quickly turns to disappointment for them when Pickles won’t
speak.

A young couple walked in with their son, a
toddler. Pickles LOVES kids so he immediately swung down the
branches to the base of the stand, as close as possible to the
boy.

Pickles: Hello baby.

Boy: Stares in surprise.

Pickles: Wanna grape?

Boy: Mouth gapes, eyes widen.

Pickles: Dontcha wanna grape?

Boy: Grabs and hugs daddy’s leg.

Pickles: Let’s go getta grape. Dontcha wanna
eacher grape? Wanna potato?

Boy: Lips begin to quiver.

Pickles: SPEAK.

Boy: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Pickles: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Mom and dad rush little boy out of store.

Pickles scurries up the branches to watch
them leave through the window then tucks one foot up, fluffs up his
feathers, puffs out his cheeks and mumbles “What a bean.”

Ha! The shoe’s on the other foot. Now he
knows how it feels.

Now and then, people who had heard about
Pickles but had never seen him would come to our RV in hopes of
meeting him. We didn’t really like people dropping by because we
worked basically from sun up to sun down, always dealing with
people and we sought privacy, whenever we could get it. But a nice
couple showed up one evening as we were eating appetizers so we
invited them in and shared some food after they finished admiring
Pickles.

We sat down to chat and had two conversations
going at one time. Suddenly I became aware of another voice. I
turned to see Pickles, on a branch, reaching as close as possible
to us, hollering “WANNA SPEAK! WANNA SPEAK! WANNA SPEAK!”