‘She can poop on command too . . . ‘ : The Age of the Cockatoo

I am sitting there cocking my head and saying “Hi!” and “How are you?” and “Pretty Katie” just as cute as hell when it suddenly occurs to me, My God, I’m talking to a bird!

It is a sobering realization for a man of my attitudes, not dissimilar to the shock a dog must feel when someone turns a hose on him during the act of coupling.

I uncock my head as quickly as social decorum permits, straighten up and get the hell out of there before, awash in sweetness, I plunge into hyperglycemic shock.

Talking to birds is not the kind of thing I do easily. It took me years to get used to talking to babies, and three of them were my own. Only now can I go goo-goo to my son, but he’s 24 and not interested.

Being darling to birds, however, is expected of a suburban columnist in an area where men wear red-checkered shorts and women consistently name Phil Donahue as Intellectual of the Year.

So, when a publicist called and said there was a nifty story in the Bird Lady of Burbank, I sighed and said all right. I should have been suspicious right away of anyone who said nifty, but the weather’s been hot and I haven’t been myself.

As it turned out, Lee Whaley is a pleasant lady who really does love birds. I find loving a cockateel a little peculiar, I guess, but then I find owning a goat with a tongue that hangs over the side of her mouth a little peculiar too, and I own one.

The goat’s name is Lucy and some years ago a neighborhood dog attacked her, leaving her in the idiot condition previously described. I give her a hug once in a while because the poor, ugly thing cries out for affection, but I’ll tell you, man, it’s tough loving something with its tongue hanging out.

Lee Whaley has about a hundred birds in her Burbank Pet Center, including the aforementioned Katie, a white cockatoo. The prices of the birds range from $7 for a lousy finch to $16,000 for a hyacinth macaw. Katie is a $4,000 bird.

Lee is a middle-aged woman who bubbles with enthusiasm, and it wouldn’t have surprised me if at any moment during the interview she broke into song and skipped around the room. I suspect when she was young she was a Mousketeer.

“Birds are in,” she said cheerfully, leading me to a back room of the pet store. In the parade with us were Jill Newman, a bird trainer, and the publicist, Nancy Sayles.

“People are changing their life styles and moving into condos,” Lee said as we settled. “Birds are perfect for condos. They’re pretty, they fly, they talk and they do tricks.”

“What tricks?” I asked, remembering a television repairman I knew who taught a canary to change channels on his TV set. The bird and the repairman used to sit and watch “Gilligan’s Island” together. It was what they both preferred.

“Watch this,” Jill Newman said.

She had Katie wave bye-bye, kiss, spread her wings and show Jill she loved her by tilting her head and covering one eye. I haven’t seen anything that cute since Ollie North winked at Sam Donaldson.

“She can poop on command too,” Lee added proudly, “and sings ‘I wish they all could be California birds.’ ”

“That’s, uh, very nice,” I said, wondering vaguely if they were both part of the same act. I didn’t ask.

We got into the subject of teaching birds to talk, and Jill said it was pretty much a question of repetition.

“People ask me to teach their birds,” she said, “but it isn’t worth a hundred dollars to have me come over and say ‘hello, hello, hello, hello . . . ‘ “

It was then I learned that Nancy Sayles was the voice on a tape that trains birds to talk. She repeats the phrases “sweet dreams” and “night-night” until the bird either speaks or keels over from Press Agent Pathology, which is a disease similar to kidney failure.

Nancy illustrated her bird-talk talent by saying “night-night” a few times, and I couldn’t help but think what a perfect job for a publicist, repeating the same phrase until someone, or something, finally listens.

I was taking all this in when Katie suddenly flew over and landed on my foot which, because my legs were crossed, dangled a few inches off the floor.

“She likes you,” someone said.

But when I looked at Katie she was glaring up at me with an expression that seemed more murderous than loving. That was when I began talking sweet bird-talk, hoping to prevent any violent behavior on Katie’s part.

I do the same thing if I’m in the ghetto and a gang kid begins glaring at me. I rap and break-dance until we establish some form of communication and then sneak off when he’s busy shucking and jiving.

Ditto Burbank.

After a few bye-byes and nice-birdies I’d had it with Katie and cuteness and wonderful things, so I left. I swear to God, I’ll never talk to another bird as long as I live, unless I find one that can sing the Marine Corps Hymn with a drunken lilt. Pooping on command, while admirable, is not essential.