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The other day, as I shepherded my wayward children into Blockbuster, we nearly collided with this parrot. It was held by a woman who did not tsk-tsk! my children for the stumble. Instead, she patiently treated my kids to an introduction to her parrot, Pablo — who had a surprising command of Spanish and English. Its feathers were so smooth they felt and looked like velvet. 

This kind stranger saved us a trip to Jungle Island (formerly Parrot Jungle.) I’ve never been keen on all those birds, unrestrained, flying overhead. I inwardly cringe each time we visit that park and walk through the parrot greeting area. Their loud squawks sound so aggressive I have to restrain myself from covering my children’s heads and running for cover.

I know this is an inexplicable personal issue I’ve developed in my 30s made all the worse because of the population of parrots that have taken residence in my neighborhood. They are spectacular to look at as they fly away, but intimidating when they congregate inside the tree my car is parked beneath.

Anyway, Pablo behaved perfectly and my kids loved him. Thankfully, my family was completely unaware of their scheming mother/wife, standing in the wings, prepared to attack Pablo with a Blockbuster poster had it shown any aggression.

I know there is a degree of delusion in this post.

Blame it on Hitchcock.

August 5, 2010

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