A Blind Dog and a Horny Parrot- Elaina Portugal

September 10th, 2015

Dear Reader-

I have a dog. His name is Bob. I have a parrot. Its name is Yonkel. We don’t know if Yonkel is male or female because we’ve never had it sexed and parrots don’t wear their jiggly bits on the outside. I’d like to say that I like my pets, but I don’t. I know, I know. I can hear the collective gasp of shock and horror from all of my pet loving readers, but I have to be honest. I can’t wait for the day I no longer have pets.

Yonkel came with my husband when we got married. Believe me, I had to think long and hard about saying “yes” knowing the bird was part of the package. Yonkel is a mean-spirited, blue-fronted Amazon my husband bought long before it was illegal to bring exotic birds into the states. He and a former girlfriend thought it would be cool to own a real Amazonian parrot. I wanted to know why she didn’t take the bird when they broke up.

Yonkel says a bunch of interesting words. He says: “Hi, Come here, bye-bye, Hi David, Hi Yonkel, and What the fuck.” He also imitates noises. When the kids were little, Yonkel would cry right along with them, and if the phone rang during one of their crying jags, he would make sure to ring and cry in equal measures. For a couple of years, we moved our business out of our house and into a storefront. Yonkel made the move too. Our office shared a wall with a local martial arts school. Within weeks, Yonkel could “Hiyah!” and “Keeyah!” with the best of them. When our phones rang at the office, he would alternate between screeching his martial arts noises and screaming “Hello.”

The best part about Yonkel, aside from his crying, screeching, meowing, kicking imaginary asses, and ringing, he likes to make sex sounds. No one within earshot of the bird can say, “Oh” with any inflection without the bird beginning to imitate the very distinct moaning sounds of sex. The bird knew these noises before I arrived on the scene. Yeah, that was a chorus of sounds no one should ever have to hear the first time they’re intimate with their partner. Not only did I get to make love to my husband, but I also got to hear remnants of his ex-wife, his ex-fiance, and all of his ex-girlfriends. They say imitation is the highest form of flattery. I beg to differ.

Bob, on the other hand, doesn’t make sex noises, but he’s blind. I walk Bob a couple of miles most days and at least once a week, he knocks me on my ass. He doesn’t mean to, but he walks right into the back of my leg, buckling my knee, and down I go. One would think I’d have learned my lesson by now, but Bob is unpredictable and bolts at unexpected sounds I don’t hear until it’s too late.

One time, Bob and I were hiking in the mountains and I ran into a bear. Bob really wanted to attack him. He got down into his low crouch, growled deep in his throat, preparing to launch himself at the bear, but the bear was behind a bush, and Bob was facing the opposite direction. In my fear, I started to sing. Both Bob and the bear were scared off by the sounds I emitted. Lucky for me, Bob was on a leash and couldn’t run too far. Yeah, lucky for me.

Bob likes to wake me up most nights because he can’t find the dog door. He has no problem finding it all day long, but at 3:00 in the morning he needs direction. I also can’t just show him the door and then go back to bed. Oh no. Bob will start barking until I come back. He likes me to wait for him to finish his business so I can lead him back to his bed, which happens to be right next to mine. And did I mention? Bob farts all night.

Maybe it’s because my husband and kids promised me I would never have to walk the dog, and they lied. Maybe it’s because they promised me I would never have to pick up a single pile of dog poop, and they were right. There’s never a single pile. Perhaps it’s the fact that I live with three males, and there’s enough methane gas in my house without a dog. Maybe it’s because I have four children so spaced apart that by the time the youngest leaves for college I will have been an active parent for over 32 years. Whatever the reason, I’m tired of being responsible for pets.

Okay, I’ll admit that when Bob passes his final gas and knocks me down for the last time, I might miss gagging over his fumes and pouring hydrogen peroxide on my skinned knees, but I’ll have Yonkel to keep me company. Parrots live for 80-100 years. And who knows? There might come a day when I’m old and decrepit that I’ll enjoy the auditory reminder of hearty lovemaking from days gone by.

And then again, maybe not.

Yours in reluctant pet ownership,

Elaina

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