Last night we went to a seaside bistro that featured a parrot to give the bar area a distinctive, tropical, piratical feel. It was a beautiful bird, large and colorful, with that kind of wise look around the eyes that parrots always seem to have.
I felt sorry for that beautiful bird. I’m sure it would rather be back in its nest in the jungle, but its wings were clipped, and it was confined to its perch with only a dish of peanuts before it. Worst of all, some old guy was constantly in its face, repeating the same annoying whistle, over and over and over again, in hopes that the bird would imitate it.
But the bird didn’t. It squawked and flapped and, I think, tried to ignore the guy. Maybe the bird was just not interested, but I preferred to think that the bird was knowingly refusing to be some cheap entertainment for a boozy codger in a ball cap. I’d like to think that parrots have pride, even in what must seem like parrot purgatory.