Potty Training a Parrot
Parrots freely poop every twenty minutes or so, as well as just before taking flight. I say this because as a fact it gives us the ability to somewhat potty train a parrot. I say somewhat, because living with a parrot requires a sense of humor.
I'm standing at my computer writing, thinking and writing. Snickers is settled on the cabinet that protects my monitor and hardware from prying macaw beaks. It's a beautiful cabinet, custom designed and built out of Maple Ambrosia. A gift built by husband. A perfect defense against landing parrots. It's also a quiet place for a parrot to sit, watch, nap, and wait for me to quit working.
To potty train a parrot, someone has to watch the clock.
Which I failed to do this morning. I have 20 minutes after he lands. I know this, he feels this. Around minute 18 he starts fussing, wiggling, mumbling and generally letting me know he's ready. But am I ready to assist with a relocation? 3 minutes ago.
To potty train a parrot you'll need to pick your preferred location.
Alas, the muse was upon me, my fingers flying over the keyboard spilling words into tumbling sentences, gathering into paragraphs, creating pages of genius. I was on a roll. That roll did not include thinking about time or Snickers.
At minute nineteen I snapped out of a fabulous compound sentence and realized Snickers was taking position directly above my keyboard, nothing but buttfeather up there. Too Late! He was already in position! No chance offering a step for preferred location. I looked down and then up in horror.
Keys F9-F12 were going to get hammered and I did not have high hopes for Backspace, plus, minus and insert, either. I saw bending bird knees, flaring buttfeathers and the ever impressive just before delivery squat! My keyboard, DOOMED!! The squeaky little poop sound led the way for the dropping.
Snickers' dropping seemed to hang in the air while I took that last nano second to decide its fate, and mine. I saw Snickers turn around to watch his bomb descend. Was that a look of satisfaction and personal pride? I couldn't tell. Without conscious thought, I watched with acceptance and interest as my own hand cupped and reached forward to catch Snickers' poop.
A soft splat and warm mass sat in the middle of my palm. I looked up at Snickers. He ruffled his head feathers, and shouted his name in excited feathery flight, "SNICKERS!", as he left the room. Pretty sure that was a threat.
Standing at the sink washing my hands, Snickers is watching me by perching in the kitchen pass through. He's taken this as a challenge. I see it in his eyes.