Swept from the corners of my mind…
“Goodnight”.
“It’s only 7 PM”.
“Ni-niighttt. Good night!”
“You go to sleep, I’m busy!”
“Goodnight!” There is a shrill sound like a smoke detector.
This is the nightly routine of Fidget, a 40-something African Gray Parrot with a penchant for plucking and a sly sense of humour.
Fidget reigns over my living room. He has no set bedtime. I leave one of the hatches on his 6’x6’ cage open, so he puts himself to bed whenever he feels like it. These declarations about bedtime are to put ME to bed at whatever time he deems appropriate, be it 5 or 11 PM. I am lounging on the couch and the litany begins. He tells me good night repeatedly; if I do nothing, he will emit a sound guaranteed to drill through my ear drums and make my teeth ache. It’s the smoke alarm, only much louder. He repeats the combination again. And again.
If I go into my office, leaving the door open so he can see me, Fidget will rappel down his cage and march over to stare at me with tilted head and assessing eye. I might talk to him but refuse to leave what I am working on (Resist the Bullying!). He marches to the door and begin rhythmically banging it with his beak, stopping now and then to look at me over his shoulder, then strolls over to visit the other bird in her cage before starting the whole routine over again. To liven things up he will chew on a cardboard box or deliberately poop in the middle of the living room floor, but his goal is always to get me to turn off all lights and go to bed. Leaving the room without all house lights off, even to go in the kitchen where he can still hear and see me, results in more shrill alarms.
Fidget does sleep better if he is in his cage with the door shut, but getting it closed is also complicated. The open door is just below my eye level, and he will plant himself on the lip of the door expectantly. What he is expecting is a puzzle. I would like to say goodnight and shut the door. He wants to hang out in the doorway, not getting skritches or cuddles, just looking at me. After 7 years together he has started reaching a claw over to hold one of my fingers as I rest my hands on the edges of the door, ready to push it closed. That’s the extent of our interaction.
Fidget does not allow physical contact beyond letting me rub his beak while he says “wooooooh” and snaps in the air. (This is a bit intimidating, to be honest. Those beaks can open walnuts. My fingers wouldn’t stand a chance.) I was chuffed when he first held onto me, but now I see it as a delaying tactic. Slowly, I raise the door, hoping he will walk himself down the bars into the cage so I can close it. If he doesn’t move, I sing to him. Lately it’s been the doo-wap version of “Goodnight, Sweetheart”. He will bop in time to the tune and pause expectantly for more verses, eying me with a calculating look. A few times he has whisper-sung a sweet “doot doot doot doot” as he bops, waiting for the song to recommence.
When I get tired of singing to him, I will raise the door encouragingly. He will retreat down the inside until just his head is out of the cage, then stop. Cajoling, singing, muttering… nothing will move him. Reluctantly, I try to touch his head to encourage him to pull it in. He has never allowed this liberty and has bitten a few times to discourage me. He now allows touching his sides or back when he’s hanging on the door, but no other time. Even so, he remains with his head out the top of the hatchway, staring down at me.
If I am short on patience, I can show him a peanut and put it in his dish, which makes him abandon his post. Otherwise, we wait each other out, my hands above my comfort zone, frozen shoulder aching, while he sees if he can get another peanut out of the deal.
When the stalemate finally ends, he swings his ways to the opposite end of his cage where he attaches like a barnacle, clinging to the wall despite the huge number of perches available, staring outward and awaiting my withdrawal to my room. If I return to the couch or the office “good nights” resume, but there are fewer alarms.
I finish up the evening routine and turn off the lights. I proceed down the hall to my room as he gets the last word in–“See ya later!”
Cathy Bendle finds humour in the quirks of everyday life, from training teachers to dodging housework. When not writing, she’s either laughing at her pets, frantically Googling for her work assignments, or playing on her iPad. Her column appears every other Wednesday.
