In 1979, when my first wife decided my brain was hopelessly bent from too much fun in the sun in Southeast Asia, I decided to get a parrot. She had taken the dogs and wasn’t giving mine back. I reasoned that a parrot lasts forever versus having to redog every 15 years. God, it’s hell to pay when they augur in. Just about the time when you can explain to them the theory of relativity-bam!- they up and die on you. God forbid you get one that thinks cars have it in for him. If they don’t, they soon will. That shortens the 15 year rule but does nothing to assuage the bond that is crushed.

Enter the parrot. They last longer than you do. Buddy (quite possibly Budette) was born Sept. 17th, 1968 in Ballard, a suburb north of Seattle. He is what we call an egg bird- one who is born in captivity and hand raised. These birds are much more docile and rarely attack.  The Budster turned 43 several months ago. For his birthday, I gave him one of the meatballs from my spagetti. Put that in perspective. The bird weighs a pound and a half. That’s like you or me eating a basketball-sized meatball. Ne problemo. He had half an oatmeal cookie without any candles afterwards. Truth be told is he would have eaten the candles or at least reduced them to little pieces. That’s what parrots do. They diassemble things-permanently.

What cannot be said about a parrot is their fetching abilities. Parrots talk. That’s their claim to fame. They don’t cuddle up very frequently with you unless you have chocolate. Buddy is not potty trained. He will dump, however, if I give the magic command of Bombs away. I do that when he’s on my friends’ shoulders. Its that warped sense of humor that drove my first wife off.  I thought Buddy would be a better conversationalist that the ex. I was wrong. They both scream equally loudly when they are unhappy.

When I remarried, I inherited Buff with the marriage. Having always had a dog up to Buddy, I immediately saw the void. Buff passed in 98. We mourned for a number of years and finally got two new ones six months apart. Dogs feed the soul where a parrot can’t. I’ve had Buddy 32 years and he’ll live to be between 80-130 if my wife doesn’t stick him in the freezer some day.

Today I received this from my daughter who loves anything that will get in the car and come home with her (animals, of course). Her husband has cured that defect or forbidden it.

Being a veterinarian, I had been called to examine a ten-year-old Irish Wolfhound named Belker. The dog’s owners, Ron, his wife Lisa, and their little boy Shane, were all very attached to Belker, and they were hoping for a miracle.

The little boy seemed to accept Belker’s transition without any difficulty or confusion. We sat together for a while after Belker’s Death, wondering aloud about the sad fact that animal lives are shorter than human lives.

Shane, who had been listening quietly, piped up, ”I know why.”

He said,”People are born so that they can learn how to live a good life — like loving everybody all the time and being nice, right?” The six-year-old continued, ”Well, dogs already know how to do that, so they don’t have to stay as long.”

I’d say that puts dogs in perspective perfectly. Buddy, on the other hand, will take longer. I haven’t even been able to break him of the habit of eating the Venetian blinds or using four letter words yet.