You Shall Not Pass!

Much to the dismay of my animals, I returned from a long trip out-of-state to spend the entire weekend in front of my computer. In my last two homes my office was hidden away, safe from the diversion of parrots and dogs and falcons. I’m not convinced if the Ghetto House has the perfect layout or the worst possible scenario, but here, I am accessible to all animals. Ty peeks in on me, the falcons are twenty feet from the office window and the dog makes the rounds. I am not lacking in distraction if the furred and feathered members of the house choose to make a ruckus. And Ty was reigning ruler of the ruckus on Sunday.

Ripping paper, throwing food, destroying toys, narrating… and somehow I managed to tune him out. Perhaps it had something to do with the head cold I’m fighting, and my diminished hearing, but mostly I was able to resist the temptation to turn and reward his labors with a glare. It wasn’t until late in the afternoon, all efforts thwarted that Ty turned to amusing himself and finally got my full attention.

When Ty was just a youngster he used to play puppet with his foot. Holding a closed foot in front of his face, he would babble to it in his burgeoning Pigeon English. Then he would shake his foot as if it were holding the other side of the conversation and babble some more. As the back and forth became more heated, the offending foot would inevitably strike him in the beak and the conversation would turn into a full-blown argument complete with shrieking and what sounded like African grey profanity. It terrified me the first few times, until I realized he was only playing.

On Sunday, Ty’s frenemy was the bell hanging from his cage. Talking and ringing, I ignored what was apparently a conversation between Ty and his imaginary counterpart until their discussion got out of control. It seemed the cheeky bell struck my poor Ty and the damaged parrot screamed as if he had been thrown across the room. I jumped from my chair to rush to his defense only to find Ty perfectly happy and blinking at me, confused by my concern. It was only a game.

I don’t know if parrots need adversaries or if Ty’s play is natural, practice based on the need to be able to defend one’s territory. I simply don’t have any science to back up a hypothesis on Ty’s lifelong imaginary frenemies. He did get me thinking though, how natural it is for humans to need challenges, situations and sometimes even people to focus their aggression and anger toward.

A life with no hurtles is a boring life indeed. In these difficult times, it is easy to wish for smooth roads. Yet, my anger toward the people who robbed me twice in my old home was a catalyst for better things, moving to a better neighborhood and a happier place. People I have admired and who have snubbed me in some way, drive me to push my shoulders back and imagine ways to show them up. Even something as simple as a bout of bad luck can get my dander up. “Yeah, well just watch me have a better day.”

These people and things don’t care if I despise them; they don’t even know I exist. So what’s the harm? Maybe we should treasure our imaginary frenemies. Sometimes they are just important and helpful as our real friends.  I suspect Ty has a fuller more creative life because he loves his.

Ty Smile

Most nights lately, I dream that I have to move again. I wrestle with my finances and how to pay for a deposit and moving expenses in my sleep. I wonder where I will fly the falcons and if I am allowed to have a dog where I’m going. And then I wonder why the hell I have to move again anyway. The dreams don’t offer any answers to this question, just the crushing feeling of having to leave and the certainly that it was a bad decision I committed to and cannot undo.

I wake at 3:30am when the newspaper hits my front door like clockwork. The Brittany stirs just enough so that I can feel him at my feet. I listen for the rustle of feathers and the parrots readjusting to go back to sleep. All of this reassures me. I’m home. Everyone is here. I didn’t do anything stupid and I don’t have to leave. Then I fall back asleep with the animals and the dreams start up again.

I’ve only lived in the 1910 ghetto house for two months, but a part of me is fretting over the next move already. The thing is I only have these dreams when I really want to stay somewhere. I only have these dreams when I’m starting to feel like everything is just fine and therefore I could screw it up at any minute. I only have these dreams because the animals make me responsible for something other than myself and Ty is their voice.

It has been years since I’ve seen Ty this animated and vocal. Not that he isn’t always these things, but he’s been on overdrive since we moved. The ghetto house is full of windows and activity. (Technically, I live in “the ghetto” but the only thing ghetto about my street really is its richness of character and a few extra police cars.) There are people walking by, squirrels bounding through the trees, birds flickering past the view and feral cats to keep out of the yard. The dog is on constant patrol and Ty comments on his activities. “Come here, Booth,” he says. “You’re a good dog.”

Booth on Patrol

Even better, his cage is in the most opportune position ever to survey his domain. Unless I hide in the bathroom or my bedroom, there is no escaping his constant critique. (And even from there I can hear him and he knows it.) He goads me when I work at my desk, calls out requests when surveying my cooking preparations and chimes in with my choice of music and television when I’m in the living room. Ty is one exuberant and busy bird these days. And although he is driving me nuts, I love that I hear in Ty’s voice how well my animals are living. And there’s a certain pressure to keep them that way.

I have never meant for animals to replace people or family-building in my life. Honestly, my long swathes of solitude and nearly perpetual single status would have been characteristic of my life whether or not it was peppered with birds and dogs. It’s simply who I am. What they have done however, I hope, is keep me from being entirely hopelessly self-centered. Sure, I pay my bills, work hard at my jobs and am generally dependable, but being responsible for the well-being and dare I say, joy, of others is a different kind of responsibility all together.

And yes, “joy” is a construct and something I cannot control, but Ty has taught me to tally up the behaviors that I believe equate to joy and figure out my role in encouraging them. It is after all, hard to ignore even unintentional advice when it is so insistent and in your own voice. Ty is not a people replacement, but he is surely a fine educator in how to take pleasure in someone else’s pleasure.

Lately it’s pretty joyful around here and mostly I don’t let the dreams get to me. I know they are a part of me that I should be grateful for, the part of me that worries about the living beings I love and am responsible for and that I only worry because life has such moments of bliss right now. The truth is, I guess, that being heckled by parrots makes me happy. (But please, no one don’t tell Ty that.)