Pets that Talk — Murdoc

I don’t think you have to read me much to figure out that I’m not a very schmaltzy, widdle fwuffy bunny kinda guy, and I definitely deliberated before blogging about the birds (“The boys,” as we call them). But if John Friggin Scalzi can keep posting pictures of his christalmighty cats — a species of furry mercenary that would happily smother a baby the second your back is turned — then I can bygod talk about my birds every once in a while.

I wouldn’t really describe myself as a bird person. I love animals (except for cats, which in any case are not animals but hairy gargoyles) and grew up out in the country surrounded by lots of them. Mostly I’m a dog person. (I’m not trying to sell anyone on dogs here; I’m aware that they’re big dumb smelly fur-covered emotion manipulators. But I don’t know of any other animal that will pull a baby out of a swimming pool or help a blind man across a busy street. Hell, most people won’t do that.)

In any case, if you’re primarily a mammal-type person, parrots take some getting used to. Their body language and habits and patterns and such were quite foreign to me at first. They aren’t just feathered mammals. In fact I suspect the reaction from any parrot-owner to the theory that birds evolved from dinosaurs would be mostly Duhhh. Cuz that’s clearly what they are — little feathered dinosaurs. In your own living room. Woo hoo.

My impression of parrots was like most people’s: big loud birds that echo what they hear, usually owned by eccentric people who would probably be crazy cat ladies if they were more mammal-centric. Then I became a stepfather to two of them.

Murdoc is a severe macaw. It’s illegal to import them now, and given his age and the fact that he was wild-caught, we figure he was somewhere around the last batch of his species to be brought (legally, anyhow) into the U.S. We don’t support buying wild-caught birds; the methods used to capture them and bring them to market are cruel from start to finish. Murdoc was a rescue. He’d been bought at a garage sale, which I find simply unbelievable, by a family that owned a pet shop. This family’s kids used to beat on Murdoc’s cage with a broomhandle while yelling at him. Maureen, my wife, grew up with parrots, and when she saw this she couldn’t stand it, and worked off the price for him in the pet shop. Then she set about the lengthy process of teaching him not to go full-on flapping panicked gonzo whenever a human being came anywhere near.

Murdoc is crazy. We figure he’s around 45 years old. He doesn’t talk, except to say “Murdoc” and, when the phone rings, “hello.” He’s kind of like Timmy on South Park, though; he’s learned to say his name any number of ways to make his meaning clear. He’s (understandably) terrified of sticks and strangers, doesn’t like loud noises or going outside. When I met Maureen he would attack anything that wasn’t Maureen. In the morning he would climb down from his cage in the room he shared with Alexander in Maureen’s apartment, walk into her bedroom, climb up on the bed, and walk across me to get to her. What woke me up most mornings when I stayed with Mo was Murdoc climbing the metal footboard. Mo would preen him and I would lie there imagining the damage his beak could do to me if he wanted it to.

Then one day he climbed up and didn’t go to Mo and wanted me to preen him. Which I did.  I was terrified. Gradually he warmed to me, to the point that he would let me preen him in the morning but not Mo. Then he fell in love with me and tried to kill Mo whenever she came near me. But love changed Murdoc. He would act silly. We found out he was ticklish on the bottoms of his claws, and he does this weird chokey laugh thing when you tickle them. He sings along with certain notes I hit or sounds I make. He also has a weird thing for being under things. I’m always building him a fort with pillows and a sheet, and he plays in it. He insists on exploring empty cardboard boxes, blankets, and cabinets. You’d think he was some kind of den animal. He’s insane for peanuts.

Murdoc is generally grumpy and not very social. (People and their pets, yah?) Often I feel sorry for him because he’s had a hard life and he’s pretty much broken. Mostly he just wants to be left alone. He loves me, though, and I’ve grown to love him. In fact love saved Murdoc, honestly.