Gum Chewers Unite

Yesterday showcased a balmy, beautiful October evening, and I sat outside on the porch eating my dinner, my dogs staring at my plate. I turned to look in through the sliding glass door, to check on SSW's whereabouts. He was right in front of me, leaning toward the glass, staring at me with one beady eye from the ledge of his cage, chewing in the exact rhythm I was chewing. He had nothing in his mouth, however.

The Mirror Chewer, we should call him.

If I have gum, he acts like he has gum.

If I eat at the table, and I get his pestering body away from my plate, he goes to his cage and eats.

He's a communal diner, and I suppose we are his flock, his cohorts to share and steal and hoard food from each other.

Sometimes he's too social, he forgets to eat. Maybe he's a little skinny.

You can always tell if he's had a good eating day, though--when I get home and his water bowl is a soup of disintegrating parrot pellets, like the last bits left in the milk at the bottom of the cereal bowl.

I imagine him throughout the day dipping each cracker with relish. I imagine him shredding some paper in his cage, taking a quick nap, then going back to the cracker ceremony.

Maybe I should read the dregs in the bottom of his dish, like one reads tea leaves. It might only translate to Feed me.