Carol’s Column

The Parrot

People always ask me if the columns I write have any veracity. Yes, I answer.

It is true I climbed a tree at Zoo Lake dressed in a bikini and cooking oil to retrieve a son's kite and got stuck for three hours and had to be rescued by the noble Rosebank firebrigade.

It is true my husband fell off a horse in Cairo, broke his arm, was strapped up like a mummy and then photographed by the local newspaper as the reincarnation of Tutenkhamen.

Yes, I did fracture my knuckles punching a bag-snatcher (as tall as Muhamed Ali) and I did lose (and find) a child at the lion park.

It is true that while hitching around Africa, my two oldest sons invited eight Malawians to stay for a while and they came for six months. My third son was arrested for driving his home-made go-cart around Zoo Lake without a licence at the age of 13 and my daughter did break her wrist swinging above the toilet at Greenside High. Odd things happen.

Right now, I am camped beneath a tree with a wolf whistler called Breyten.

Not a pervert, Breyten is an African grey parrot which has taken up residence in a tall plain tree in our garden.

Obviously somebody's escaped pet, I've checked everywhere. Phoned all the vets, called the SPCA, watched the papers, put "found" ads in. Nothing. Which is mystifying as these birds cost about R2000.

The Internet is informative about African grey parrots which they describe as "the cadillac of parrots". Remarkable studies have been done over the years which prove that African greys have the intellectual capabilities of a five-year-old child and the emotions of a two-year-old. They are also receptive to interactive communication.

Agh, ja, well, no fine.

To get back to our African grey parrot (called Breyten after my octogenarian mother's favourite rugby player), each day, I put out sunflower seeds and dried mielies.

Until yesterday morning, nobody had been too clued up on how to catch Breyten. The best way, obviously, would be for Breyten's owner to come over and call him.

Other than that, it has been suggested I climb up to catch him – the tree's too high, or, alternatively, wait until he hops to the lower branches, then gently sprinkle him with water. This, I was told, would make his feathers heavy, and he would be unable to fly. But parrots are susceptible to chest colds, so this is not acceptable.

In attempt to win his heart and mind, I have moved out under the tree and am gaining his confidence. Together we tweet, whistle and call to each other. Breyten also loves guitar music and imitates plinking.

My husband is not impressed. "Only a lunatic would spend nights halfway up a tree playing a guitar and singing to a stupid bird," he grumbled.

Stupid?

"This is a highly intelligent bird, a cadillac among birds," I responded. Besides, would you leave a five-year-old all alone up a tree?

But help is nigh. A saviour has arrived in the form of well-known birdman Ralph Poswell of Africa, who will attempt a rescue.

The plan? To arrive with the local fire brigade in the dark of the night and silently set up a rescue operation while Breyten slumbers.

"Do you think you'll catch him?" I queried anxiously.

"They don't call me 'Parrot' Poswell for nothing," he replied modestly.

Meanwhile, Breyton is learning to hum. To tell the truth, if Birdman Ralph fails, I won't be unhappy. It's nice out here ... just Breyten, me and the moon.

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