HARRY COMES HOME TO ROOST

By Matt Frumess
It would be easier to explain if I weren't an atheist. My daughter Rebecca's former bedroom (our parental philosophy has always been "when they are graduated from high school, sell their beds") had long ago became the Animal Room. Tenants included were Becky's 7-toot-long red-tailed boa (her apartment is too small), my little budgie and her friend, the even littler society finch, in one cage and my Orange-Winged Amazon Quackenbush in the other cage that he shared with Baron, the feisty Maroon-bellied Conure that he had inadvertently bonded with years ago.

At the end of the summer, the society finch died (after the last Seinfeld, what was there to live for?) and Richie asked if he could bring the parakeet to his classroom, the female budgie of his class' pair having recently died. I of course said yes. I hoped the bird who had no name would be happy.

As summer turned into autumn, my friend Stu had taken up residence in Becky's room. Did I mention that the Animal Room was also our Guest Room. It keeps guests to a minimum. Two days before Thanksgiving, the morning Stu was to depart for his winter roost in Florida, he came downstairs and told me that he thought Quackenbush was dead. Why? Well, he was hanging upside down from his perch. I told him that birds weren't bats and that they did not sleep hanging from their perches. Indeed, old Quackenbush was dead. He had not had a bad life, Baron having entertained and given him devotion for the past 10 years. Quackenbush was not a young bird when I got him-Richie had placed him with me when over 13 years ago, his previous owner had decided to spend her remaining days traveling the country. Becky, who always had a special relationship with the birds, took Baron back with her to New Paltz where she reports that he gets continual attention from her roommates and is having a grand old time (I've always wanted to write that.)

The day after Thanksgiving, I got a call from Richie. "Who do you love?" he chanted. I thought I was supposed to sing the song but I couldn't remember the complex lyrics so I said something on the order of "Huh?!" "I got you the Grey. When do you want to go?" Richie replied. For months, Richie had been telling me about a woman, Pat, with an African Grey that she could not handle, literally. The bird only got along with her not-very-welcome, and apparently not very stable, ex-husband. As far as she could tell, Richie had been reporting, the bird would require substantial work. I was more than willing, African Greys being my favorites. Furthermore, Richie knew that I had been devastated when Erithacus, my first Grey that I had purchased as a baby in Queens 20 years before, was killed while he was waddling around my backyard by a neighbor's dog. For years I did not have the stomach or resources to replace him.

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We pulled up to an attractive, well-kept ranch house and were greeted warmly first by Pat, then enthusiastically by her three dogs, a Dalmatian, a boxer and a collie. It was immediately clear that Pat doted on her animals. They were affectionate, fearless and had the run of the house. She led us into her bedroom where the birds resided (she has a beautiful Cockatoo that she cuddles like a Furby) and there in a large cage was the Grey, named Bogey. Actually, the large cage was so chock full of toys that Bogey was hard to find.

As Pats kids passed across the kitchen, she gave a detailed rundown on the foods Bogey preferred-chickpeas, sugar-snap peas, Kaytee treats, dried corn on the cob, grapes, apple cores, Indian nuts--- and the litter she used (crushed walnut shells). Her concern and devotion to the bird made his inability to tolerate her a typically frustrating avian tale. Meanwhile, her only concern was that he get a good home.

Well, the rather chunky Grey had no hesitation coming to me or Richie. He quietly went into the carrier, peering intently through the slits on the side. He undoubtedly chuckled, watching the two of us attempt to disassemble the cage. Eventually we got it apart and into my Jeep, thanked Pat profusely, promising her visitation rights and interim progress reports.

From the moment we got home, Bogey showed no signs of fear, though he was a bit jumpy at first. He quickly hopped onto my hand whenever I extended it into his cage: clearly he was not particularly neurotic. He joined us at the dinner table, hopping around, eating nearly anything chewable. He particularly likes the sweet potato casserole that was left over from Thanksgiving. He'll shove his face into a bowl of it and eat until its gone-and his head is covered with an orange helmet.

After a day or so, I changed his name to Harry, my father's name-why, I'm not sure. I didn't like Bogey, and as the little guy is less than two years old, I didn't think the name change would be particularly traumatic. (I did have to replace his stationary, though.)

Since I usually work at home, Harry spends most of his waking hours with me, while I'm on the phone, while I eat -well, that's my day! He has that insatiable pscittacine need to have his head scratched, which I normally oblige him-for a while, at least. He joins me for all my meals and has a remarkably broad palate: pasta, sautéed onions, sweet potato casserole, pearl barley, cooked peas, Kaytee pellets, sweet potato casserole, pears, bananas, turkey, liver, sweet potato casserole. Like my kids, he'll try anything at least once.

He's young and mischievous. He loves to shred pencils. If I'd let him, he'd surely remove all the buttons from my shirt. He's wonderfully affectionate and great buddy. So thank you, Richie. And Pat. Sometimes dreams do come true.