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H.C. Klingman

Okay, I gotta tellya why I’m mad at this stage of my life. I’ve been to a few foster homes, and here I am, being shown again with people looking at me like I’m a dumb animal. I’m thinking if they only want a stupid pet to cuddle, they should buy a teddy bear.
It’s tough fitting into a new household. The last family that got me had two nasty kids that liked to torment me. Then there was their damn cat. They were always hassling me in some way, and I knew I had to get out of that prison.
The deal was, I’m there for a trial period, and if they didn’t like me they can send me back for a restocking charge. So I tried to figure out ways to annoy them. After a lot of disrespectful wisecracks that didn’t work, I found the answer. I sang loudly or talked at the top of my voice at night. Then I bit a finger. That did it. After that the father swore mightily and said, “That little black bastard is going back, first thing in the morning.”
So it’s back to the perch in that pet shop behind the stinky puppies. I tease them by imitating their little yelps. The owner is a tightwad who skimps on birdseed, even when he’s asking top buck for me, the most expensive animal in the store. A cheaper parrot lived a few cages down, but he hadn’t talked much English in the last 50 years, and was probably past his shelf life.
The greedy old owner was tired of having to recycle me. And there were no takers despite the enticing words written on the card that said, “Mynah Bird, India, Imitative Avian. Talks. Special Price. The favorite bird of the maharajahs.” He offered discounts, but there were no takers.
People would come close to the cage and the best they could muster up was a lame “Hello” as though I were some kind of a retarded mocking bird. But I never liked their looks so I sulked and kept my beak shut. The miserable shop owner always tried to induce me to talk or sing for prospective customers. But a bird’s got his pride. I didn’t perform on cue and awaited my chance. What I wanted was a nice family, no kids or pets, a big cage and a full seed cup.
I was waiting for the right opportunity to recite my confidential resume, an achievement unequaled among vocalizing birds, including that dopey Pakistani parrot in the next aisle who spoke mostly Pashtu. Who’d want him. You’d need a dictionary. So I practiced quietly, biding my time.
I sensed a chance to get a new home when my wily old Fagan put an ad in the paper announcing a raffle and a “Talking contest between a loquacious Pakistani Parrot, and a talkative Indian Mynah.” The idea was the winner of the raffle would get to pick the bird that spoke the best. Pretty smart. That way me and old Paki would talk up a storm outdoing each other to vamoose that dump and the winner could pick from two contenders at their best. I wanted that “Get out of Jail” card badly.
Old Scrooge put fresh Naples Daily News into our cages and took us down to the packed lodge hall. He was going to clean up on this deal, and get rid of hard to move inventory. The losing bird was to be auctioned off. No lottery like that for me, man. I was thinking furiously, planning my tactics, and vowed that the squawker with the crooked beak would be put on the block to second place destiny. I preened my feathers to a glossy black and cleared my throat.
The format was simple. First came the drawing to select the winning judge. The old fart would then put us each onto a perch, and speak a tailored phrase for us to repeat. (This avoids ad-libbing that could produce profanity that all imitative avians engage in from time to time.) It demonstrated the quality of our elocution. (A few sybillants, and no gutturals showed us off at our phonetic best.)
The parrot, who was in beginning moult, came first. Holding a few sunflower seeds in his fist, our miserly speech teacher slowly said the words, “Hello, hello, how are you? Are you singing in the shower.” The parrot was slow on the uptake, so he slipped him a bribe and repeated, “Are you singing in the shower?” The hall was silent as all awaited that birdbrain’s reply. Then, after two head bobs, and a ruffling of feathers, he came out with it, giving a peremptory “Awwk”, that revealed his low class.
I must say I admire his courage because his accent was rusty, having spent too many years of his long life in a Pakistani pet shop. But he stabilized and slowly, with some fuzziness in the consonants, he said, “Yes I am fine. I am sinning in Peshawar.” It was fairly close to “Singing in the Shower.” I thought that was not a bad effort for an exotic costing only 129.99, but his Pashtu accent meant that he was a loser and I was going to win. Besides, he couldn’t ad-lib.
So when my turn came, I went for it. Ignoring the maestro’s prompting, and his infantile patter, I launched my full throated resume for the slam dunk, declaiming it in fine Calcutta Oxford diction.

“No cluck like a chicken, but wise as an owl.
Not pretty as a parrot, that fine feathered fowl,
Not regal as the eagle, that scavenging dope,
Nor preening as peacocks, who’re dumb beyond hope.
The paradise bird shows off like a whore,
And parakeet’s mutterings totally bore.
And if crows could but talk, I’d win each debate
Cause Mynah’s IQ is a hundred and eight.”

At first stunned, the crowd went wild with applause for my bravura performance, and the lucky number guy came forward to claim his prize. But he headed right for my neighbor. I ask you, what moron would pick a virtually tongue-tied refugee from the Bird Market of Peshawar over me? I’ll bet he was some kind of terrorist! My rage was enormous as I whistled and rasped my objections to this fowl injustice.
But, on closer inspection I decided I didn’t like this guy’s simian look, or his ponce outfit. He said, as he claimed his prize, “I’ll take the parrot. He tried so hard, besides who needs a wise-guy Mynah poet who can’t follow instructions.”
The jerk walked down the aisle carrying the cage with his dopey prize, coaxing it with sickening banality, “Polly want a cracker?” I was glad to have avoided such linguistic mediocrity. So I got auctioned off as runner-up. I thought anything was better than a guy with purple socks.
Today I finally got lucky. There was only one bid in response to old sleaze-bag’s strenuous auctioneering. The kindly little old lady shouted a preemptive bid, “Six hundred dollars, and you throw in a big cage.” I was enchanted with her right from the beginning.
Back at the pet shop the deal was concluded and I knew I was finally in for a cushy life when she bought the most expensive bird seed, some special treats, and a little bell for my cage. For that generosity I would have imitated a canary. The cage was a spacious model I knew. I could pick the catch on the door, and get out whenever I wanted.
So, I determined to enjoy my new home by being a cute little companion in her old age, as long as she didn’t get too possessive or come down with Alzheimers. If she did, I had only to wait until there was an open window. Then, as they say, I would fly the coop. Is that KG enough for you?