When a Parrot Enters Your Life . . .

Mrs. Goldfarb, the duck-footed cat, and I had an interesting opening to the morning one day last week. She often accompanies me on the trip to the driveway to get the Los Angeles Times. That is sometimes a challenge because we live at the foot of a cliff, but we have a saintly delivery man who tosses it from the street above.

Goldfarb and I walked out to the driveway and at the right rear of Patsy’s car was a parrot. It was a large, John Silver kind of parrot, with green wings, apricot sides, a yellow front and a red head. Goldfarb took one look at him and turned and splayfooted her way back into the house with the expression of a woman who might have been saying, “Oh, I just wanted to check something in the Penny-Saver, anyway.”

Those of us who are hill-dwellers are always aware of coyotes, and I thought maybe the parrot had clipped wings. I walked slowly toward the large bird and he walked slowly away from me. He didn’t seem at all nervous; he just moved slowly away, walking with his feet turned out, rather like Mrs. Goldfarb.

I stopped. He stopped. We repeated the exercise. Finally I decided that what I needed was a bird cage or the Humane Society.

I came back in the house and called the Humane Society, knowing it was too early for anyone to answer but ever hopeful. A recorded message told me that if I had a caged animal, someone would come get it. (If the animal was caged, I wouldn’t need the Humane Society.) I then called my friend Ray Hyde, who lives down on the corner and who has at least one of everything. I asked him if he had a bird cage to put the parrot in. He said, quietly, “Why do these things happen to you, Zan?”

Of course, he had a bird cage. He had just finished raising an orphaned mallard. I should have known. Only Ray would raise an orphaned mallard.

Patsy came into the office and asked, “Why are you calling Ray at this time of the morning?”

“To see if he has a bird cage to put the parrot in.”

“What parrot, Zan?”

“The one by your car in the driveway.”

“Sure, Zan,” she said, but she did go outside. She came back in a minute and said, “There’s a parrot in the driveway.”

Of course. We stayed in the house so the parrot wouldn’t be frightened, and when Ray came up with the cage, the parrot was gone.

We jungle folk were disappointed but not concerned. If he could fly, he was safe from the coyotes.

There are several neighborhood stories about where he might have come from. It is known and proven that there is a flock of parrots anywhere from the Arcadia County Arboretum to the Linda Vista Hills. They are sighted regularly.

And there’s always the story about the pet shop that was left open and the occupants escaped.

Ray drove through the hills with his mallard cage and spotted the parrot once and heard him twice. He makes a sound like a rusty hinge. We have since heard him in the trees, and it is not a bird or animal sound at all.

I wish him well. And I don’t know what we would have done if Ray had caught him in the mallard cage. Although Ray would have thought of something. He is the befriender of all wild creatures and has a desert tortoise that thinks Ray is its mother, so attentive and careful is my neighbor.

If you see a duck-footed parrot, don’t call me. Call Ray Hyde.