Journal of a Living Lady #160
Nancy White Kelly
The menagerie in our house changes from time to time. Right now we have an African Gray Parrot that was supposed to be mine. Gracie bonded to Buddy instead. Buddy can do anything with Gracie. She sits on his shoulder, preens his eyebrows, and explores the corridors of his ears.
Even though I am the one who feeds Gracie and cleans the cage while Buddy distracts her, she shows no appreciation. Gracie decides whom she will like and not like. Undoubtedly Gracie has decided I am kin to Osama bin Laden. She puffs up and screeches like an owl at me. If any part of my anatomy gets too close to the cage, she takes treacherous snipes with her dark gray bill. I have scars to prove her distain.
How could she not like ME? I am like Mrs. Santa Claus, chubby, pleasant, and kind to children.
Creatures are like that sometimes. They accept one gender only. I had a pet spider monkey once that loved women, but detested men. Anytime Buddy came around, he would wrap his long arms around my neck and give Buddy a powerful shove with his foot. Needless to say, Spiderman didn’t stay long. Buddy had no intentions of competing with a monkey for my affection.
We still have Mr. And Mrs. Dusty, the matched pair of gray bantams and their one biddy that was born in the dead of winter. Though I fuss, Buddy loves to open the back screen door and invite them in. It is a hilarious sight. All three of the chickens parade into the den in single file and march right up to Queen Gracie’s huge cage.
Gracie talks big time. “Hello. What ‘ya doing?” she asks Mr. Dusty. He hops up on the old console television to get closer to his friend.
Gracie turns her head sideways as if to see if anybody is watching. “I love you,” she says. The rooster nods as if he understands.
“What’s up?” Gracie asks.
Without answering, Mr. Dusty hops back down to the floor and chortles as if to interpret Gracie-talk to Mrs. Dusty and the baby. Not caring about the strange rooster-parrot relationship, Mrs. Dusty and the baby walk around the cage, exploring dropped seeds.
“Hello,” Gracie says. Mama hen and baby ignore her greeting and continue exploring the den floor.
“Hello. Hello. Hello,” Gracie says, raising the tone of her voice each time.
The mother and baby chick continue to ignore her vocal crescendos. Gracie decides they need to go back where they came from.
Gracie is a Dr. Jeckyl and Mr. Hyde disguised in feathers. She meows like a cat. I mean it is so realistic that I used to think somebody had hidden a cat in our house. She can meow like a hungry kitten or sound like an alley cat in mortal feline combat.
Thinking that an enemy is nearby, the chickens start to glance around suspiciously. Gracie makes the scenario more interesting. She barks like a dog, changing intermittently from the familiar arf-arf of our Chihuahua, Oppie to a ferocious canine bark she learned from who knows where.
Now Mr. Dusty get anxious. He calls Mrs. Dusty and the biddy. In single file, they parade out the back door while Gracie whistles a medley of tunes.
“Bye, bye,” says Gracie. “See ya later.” No response comes from any of the three chickens.
When Buddy shuts the screen door and then the wooden back door, the rooster finally answers Gracie with a robust, “Cock-a-doodle-doo.”
“Okay. Okay,” Gracie replies.
Only in the Kelly household will you find such amusement. Some friends with young boys told us once they had rather visit our house than any zoo in the world.
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April 18, 2002
