The Problem with Parrots
He's very handsome and he knows it. Which does nothing for his attitude.
Apparently, parrots bond with just one person. At my house, that would be me. He's cuddly and affectionate. He smooshes his cheek against mine and talks to me in a cooing voice. He does something I call the Chiapas dance on my chest, where he hops from one foot to the other and pants. (Don't go there...)
The downside is that he gets jealous. When other people approach him (Oh say, Jean), he goes into full-bore attack mode: puffed up feathers, wings spread, beak open, low guttural growls. If I happen to be holding him at the time, he bites the hell out of me. This is tough on me and the furniture because I take anti-coagulants and blood thinners, so it takes awhile to stop the bleeding.
It's also a strain on my marriage to have a hostile creature with a strong, sharp beak between me and my soulmate.
Still, he's so darn cute. He's sitting on my lap as I write this, my companion and muse.
What passes for winter weather arrived in San Miguel de Allende around October 15. Our houses, uninsulated brick and stone without central heating, feel like wine cellars. Too cold for parrots. I put Chiapas's cage in my little office with a thermostat-controlled ceramic heater. Keeps him toasty warm. On cold mornings, Jean, Rosita the Boston Terrier and I join Chiapas in the only comfortable room in the house. Am I overdoing something here?
Parrots can be so sweet, I'm considering getting one of my own. Apparently if you raise one from a chick, and if everyone in the house handles him, he's less likely to be hostile toward others. (Jean's not buying it, though.)
Potential future Wood household member.
I read somewhere that parrots need to bathe. Sprinkling them with water on a warm day is one suggestion: simulates tropical rain. The obvious approach then is to take him into the shower with me.
He loves it. He flaps his wings and gets sort of wet, all the while talking furiously: "Buenos dias, it's OK Chiapas, (whistle), I love you, perico, (chucklechucklechuckle), hasta luego, (something about niños), hello, (insane laugh), oh baby oh baby oh baby..."
The "oh baby" phrase startled me. I hadn't heard that one before. I'd never said that around him, and the people who raised him speak no English. So where did he learn it? Under what circumstances? Hmmm?
The only other English speaker in his life is his owner. I'm going to have to ask him about this.
Chiapas is (please forgive the expression) a chick magnet. He rides on my shoulder as I walk around town. Few men give him a second look. But women! I get to meet so many. They come up and ask his name and whether he talks. If I had only known this in college...
Once Clint was carrying him when a gaggle of women called out from the other side of the street, "Oh look! There's the parrot. With that tall guy." Reduced just like that to a prop for a bird.
Chiapas is well known in San Miguel. Many people greet him by name. He's welcome in some restaurants, where the waiters bring him tortillas. He likes toast and coffee for breakfast.
He's not aggressive to others if he meets them outside of his tree (my house). He tolerates strangers unless they poke at him. Tourists ask if they can take his (and my) picture; I always let them.
Parrots like to be on top of things. I guess they feel safer, or at least more comfortable, from a high vantage point.
So they like to climb on your head. I have to wear an old ratty baseball cap while sitting at my desk because I don't have a whole lot of hair, and Chiapas likes to groom me aggressively, snipping off spots and moles. Better he grooms the hat.
You can't tell a parrot's gender just by looking. At least most of us can't. I once met a man who was a Chicken Sexer by trade. He would pick up baby chicks two at a time, one in each hand and look, tossing them into either chicken or rooster boxes. He was fast, sexing more than 1,000 in an hour.
Where is he when I need him? I've decided I have to find out about Chiapas. Especially with that Chiapas dance thing.
Apparently there's two ways of doing this: surgically (that's out) or by DNA testing. So I sent off for a DNA collection kit from a lab. I figured it would be easy. After all, they collect human DNA by wiping a Q-tip on the inside of the mouth.
The kit arrived. They need a sample of either blood or feathers. Blood you get by clipping a talon short enough so it bleeds. No way.
Feathers ought to be simple. Chiapas sheds lots of them. Mussy little guy. But of course it isn't going to be that easy. Molt feathers won't work Gotta be fresh ones. The instructions read:
Once you have gained control of your bird, pluck the appropriate amount of chest or breast feathers using your thumb and index fingers.
Yeah. Right.
You gain control of him. You yank feathers out of him. I gotta live with him.
Maybe I'll take him to the vet to get his sample.
Parrots are high-maintenance pets. They demand a lot of attention. They want to spend time with the human they're bonded to; the person that they groom. They poop on you when they're annoyed or frightened.
I just love them. So do many Mexican people: I've met lots of parrots in the homes of friends and acquaintances.
Parrots are also popular icons.
I've run into three Parrot Taco places so far. I've never once been concerned that the restaurant name might refer to a type of taco filling. Too expensive.
But there have been times, like when Chiapas snips a hole in a favorite shirt, that I've had fleeting thoughts about it.