Family matters:

A close encounter with an uncommunicative parrot gives Pat McDermott pause for thought. Could it be time for a new puppy?

Pat McDermott considers a new pet

Iwas sitting in a small cafe near our new apartment when a woman walked in with a bird on her shoulder. This may sound like the beginning of the “dead parrot” sketch by John Cleese but I promise you it isn’t. The bird was bright green and very much alive. Its wee claws didn’t appear to be glued to the owner’s shoulder. Could it be an Indian Ringneck? A Lorikeet? A smallish King Parrot perhaps?

Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t know an Indian Ringneck from a bacon and egg roll – certainly not at 6.37 in the morning in a cafe full of edgy people. But I love all creatures great and small and this wee bird was clearly one of them. So I struck up a conversation. With Bird – not “Owner”. Owner, like everyone else in the place, was texting.

“Who’s a pretty boy then?” I inquired politely. Bird fixed me with a hard stare.

The kind of stare you give someone who, having asked what you do for a living, says. “Insurance! Really? Wow! That must be fascinating!”

Bird was clearly a cafe frequent flyer.

When there was a sudden hiss from the coffee machine and an accompanying cloud of steam, Bird didn’t turn a feather. He (or perhaps she) shuffled happily back and forth along the owner’s shoulder, unruffled by the loud music and the constant roars of inquiry about somebody’s toasted banana bread or the extra large skim decaf to go. There was no squawking and no pooping. Bird just bobbed his or her head and looked around inquisitively at the sea of morning faces. Almost every face softened at the sight of “Bird”.

According to the MOTH (The Man of the House) that’s exactly what birds and animals do. They soften you up. Before you know it you’ve moved from, “Awww, aren’t you cute” to hearing yourself say, “Maybe we should get a dog or rabbit or rooster”.

“Bird” made me think about cats and cats reminded me about dear, departed Buddha. Buddha was a black and white moggy who died, after a long and happy life, just before we moved to our new home.

Was it time, I wondered, to get another cat or perhaps a puppy?

The main shopping street in our area is the place to go if you’re thinking about getting a pet. Every Saturday morning there is an endless parade of dogs walking their owners. There’s the big, quiet fellow with the yappy Pomeranian and the frizzy blonde woman with the tall, dignified Afghan.

The MOTH had no trouble resisting the call of the wild. He reminds me that to date we’ve had:

Brutus (Kelpie/Labrador cross) – the perfect dog. He would shake hands even though asleep. You simply took his paw and lifted it up and down for him.

McTavish (pure-bred Border Collie) – flighty, highly strung. With no sheep to herd, he rounded up children instead, dividing birthday party guests into groups and forcing them to stand in different parts of the garden.

Jack (unknown parentage) – short stumpy legs and a testy, nippy personality. He loved Ruff Red but hated everybody else. Loved to tear up cushions, suit pants and school blazers.

And who could forget Itchy and Scratchy, the goldfish identical twins? One of them (who knows which) required the Heimlich Manoeuvre to spit out a stone sucked up from the bottom of the fish tank. From memory, both fish died of boredom. Eventually.

“Do you think we should get another cat?” I asked the MOTH one evening when he was safely behind his newspaper.

“Why not?” he mused. “I do miss cat hair on my pants and the scratching at the door. And show me the man who can forget the sound of a fur ball coming up just before breakfast!”

He ducked behind his newspaper. I’ll talk to “Bird” about it in the morning.

Almost every face softened at the sight of ‘Bird’.