That Jagged Crescedo

I grew up with cats. They are quiet, sleep most of the day, and mine have been only rarely annoying when I step in a fur ball-vomit pile in the middle of the night. The most pesky thing my current cat does is purr all night long on my pillow.

After college I went to the pound to find the gentlest, calmest, friendliest dog there. I left with a red lab cross who infrequently barked, and he and I spent 14 years gazing into each other's eyes. He did have a strong hatred of the UPS truck and deep-woofed at it when it went by. I always knew when I got a package.

I moved in with my partner a few years down the line and we now had two dogs, hers and mine. They liked each other. They barked only when necessary, but two dogs are louder than one.

In my dog's senior years, I decided to get another dog, a third dog, mind you, a dog to help me bridge the gap of sure grief that would come with my big red dog's eventual death. I lost my mind. I adopted a terrier cross. She had been abandoned at the vet clinic by her previous owner, and yes, she put her head on my shoulder when I carried her. She was really good at showing you her belly, too. She wore me down. I took her home.

The first thing I noticed about the small gal was she paced. From window to window, barking. She had big ideas, from a 30 pound body, that her territory to protect included anything she could see. This meant even the dogs being walked down the road across the creek from our house. Arfarfarf.... Click click, her nails went.

She barks all day--at dogs, children on bicycles, car door closing outside our house, baby strollers, the mailman, kids walking by, roller bladers, lawnmowers, garbage trucks, guys playing football, cats, rabbits, squirrels...

After I adopted her, and the thunder storms started, I realized I acquired a whining, high-pitched yelping, fearful friend. She trembled, she paced, she got as much of her body as she could under the bed.

I have had her for five years now, and well, I guess I am used to her noisy ways. Once, just once, I would like a nap, a deep, luscious, uninterrupted nap, free from that startling bark.

My lovely red dog died two winters ago, and we did not want any more pets, no dogs, no cats. The maw of his absence was too ragged and deep.

And then there's the fact that I am not a morning person. I like to wake up slowly, have the day seep, not zap in. So adopting a parrot seems counterintuitive to my basic core.

I am not sure what overtook me. Maybe it was watching The Parrots of Telegraph Hill. Maybe it was the fact I could hear him screaming from the entrance to the humane society. He had been a conure on the loose, and the cops had brought him in. I mean, a parrot with a record? I should have had some idea.

Oh, Sweet William, oh Bubbie, our green friend. Your morning exuberance has creeped in and I no longer wince when you call repeatedly from the top of the fridge before I have had any caffeine. You've been asleep for 10-12 hours and you have a lot to say. You just want to share. And you want your damn breakfast.