Fluffy Ty
I did the math today and in his fifteen years Ty has moved house more than a dozen times, one more than a dozen, in fact. This is lucky number 13.
We made the first move from a condo in Riverside when Ty was only two and had just started to label his world. This was after a stalker shattered a youthful belief in my immortality and forced me with my head low, back to my father. I nursed my wounds, while Ty judged my shoes and wondered over my grumpiness until I found my future.
Our next move took four days of driving and taught me that Ty can be very demanding about bedtimes on the road. His “good nights” got so insistent I pulled into a hotel early one night just to get him to shut up. So we landed in Florida to start over. We lived on the ranch where I was training birds. We stayed in a trailer affectionately dubbed “The Velvet Elvis” until I found an apartment with a view of a lake and an eagle’s nest. Ty learned to cackle like a bald eagle and mimic grackles.
Then we relocated to Ohio for a summer, where I managed a brand new bird show at the Toledo Zoo. There living in the office, Ty learned to do an old school fax machine and a phone ring so pitch perfect, that he pissed off my boss who came running every time. From there we went to the Texas State Fair in Dallas, Ty mumbling under my plane seat the whole way.
And when I got sick and scared and lonely for family, we drove back to California so I could lick my wounds again. Ty said, “Bye! See you later!” when we crossed the California border and we barely made it past the perplexed border guard.
After that we spent six months house sitting in the rural desert mountains, where Ty learned to call “Stump” the dog and wonder “where ARE you,” after the tortoises in my care. Then we landed in the La Quinta apartment where Anakin changed my world view and Ty narrated my early mornings. I bought a house and there Ty learned to mimic the sound of fledging red-tailed hawks and howl like the neighborhood dogs against the fire truck sirens and he laughed, a lot.
Two years ago we moved for a dream job. I still have the job, but hated the house so we moved again. I don’t know if Ty hated it too or succumbed to my unhappiness, but it was a quiet year and half. It was the only place that even Ty couldn’t make home. So I wisely moved us.
Ty is in fine form again in this house where he can survey the kitchen, living room and office from his cage. There’s no escaping his commentary now. My favorite, his newest phrase, a plaintive, “You’re killing me, dog.” I didn’t even realize that I said that, but I have to laugh.
Surely, this place will be temporary too, but I’m hoping for a few less transitory years. Not that Ty seems to mind. He has brought a bit of every place we’ve ever lived along for the ride, the good things, really. Ty seems to know that home sounds like the wild outside, the routines that don’t change and the laughter you bring with you. And I guess I don’t mind either. I’ll move thirteen times more as long as Ty can come with me.
Catch up on Tuesdays with Ty
