A Lifetime with Critters — Cats, 2 Dogs & a Parrot

I’ll begin with 1975 — a jackrabbit roadkill, skinned and trimmed and three days in a marinade. Guests are invited to the feast. A silent form enters through the door, leaps onto the counter and then off, prompting Nancy to announce, “Your cat, I believe, is escaping with the hasenpfeffer.”

That would have been Mirandus, the first of a dozen cats we would treasure and bury over the next 30 years.

And there were two dogs: Max, a black and tan gentleman dachshund who had his own thing about rabbits. He once extracted and devoured four baby rabbits in seconds from a nest, only to upchuck the lot of them moments later, furry, whole and deceased. And there was Joe, who combined a pure heart with the speed and grace of a god, but still had to endure two face-to-rump encounters with a porcupine before learning that some things in life are best avoided.

Then there was Simon, the intense-eyed green parrot with a twisted beak who, in 1965-66, had the run of our Brazilian Peace Corps home. Feeling ignored one evening, Simon launched himself off his perch and into the gravy bowl spraying brown grease over Walter who was our friend, and as secretary to the mayor, our most important contact in the town.

A rich fantasy life was one of Simon’s possessions. Set him in an orange tree and he would stretch to the farthest leaf, slice it off with his rapier-like beak and hurl it to the ground as if he were defending a castle. He had a contemptuous hatred of the turkey flock that periodically wandered through our yard and, when they gobbled, he gobbled back and continued to gobble until they had slunk from sight.

Simon’s mimicking skills were marvelous. To my knowledge, he had never seen a dog, but a large one once appeared at our door. Simon, on the floor a few feet away, erupted with a loud aggressive “Bark!” that sent the dog fleeing. He and Adji, our 12-year-old neighbor, enjoyed insulting each other. “You hillbilly!” they would shout. So identical were their voices that unless I was standing beside them, I could not tell who was insulting whom.

One day when Simon was out in his orange tree cutting down enemy leaves, the turkeys snuck up behind him. Suddenly, they erupted: “Gobble!” Panicked, Simon took flight. Unfortunately, his wing feathers had been clipped and he crashed to the ground a few feet away. In a flash, the turkeys attacked, pecking and gobbling.

Had I not leaped out to save him, that might have been the end of Simon. In retrospect, given his love of drama, such a death might have been his preferred way to go. But a few months later, a mysterious illness thickened his tongue, leaving him weak and shivering. Nothing we did could save him; Simon died, leaving us bereft and alone in a foreign land.

Doug Ingold is a retired novelist living parrotless in Arcata.

Visit dougingold.com.