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Gordie

michaelf November 19, 2004
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Read Time:2 Minute, 6 Second

I used to have a pet parakeet named

Gordie. Gordie would imitate the sounds of two things perfectly. One was the phone. I’d

answer my ringing phone only to realize the line was dead, and it was Gordie up to his

tricks. ‘Damn!’ I’d say after I picked up the third false call in ten minutes. But it

was so much like the real phone, I didn’t know if I had a call or not.

The other imitation Gordie had down was the toilet flushing. I’d hear

the plumbing go off and say, ‘Whoa, who’s in my place?’ But it would just be Gordie

horsing around. Sometimes he’d do it when I had a guest over who thought we were alone.

She’d go, ‘Hey! Who else is here?’ And I’d have to explain about Gordie. She’d think

that was cute. Then when she and I got real quiet together, Gordie got cruel. He’d start

an orgy of toilet flushing and phone ringing until it sounded like we were in a cheap

hotel. ‘What the–?’ she’d say, and I’d explain Gordie did the phone, too. Usually

she’d say, ‘That’s a talented bird,’ or sometimes, ‘What a nuisance!’

After a few months, Gordie got bored living with me, let himself out of

his cage, and took off in my car. I called the cops about my missing car, and in a few

days it turned up in Tennessee. Gordie evidently drove it until it ran out of gas, then

abandoned it and flew the rest of the way to his destination. Weeks went by, and I

didn’t hear a word from Gordie. I’d just about forgotten him when one evening, the

phone rang. I picked it up and held it to my ear.

‘Gordie?’ I said.

‘Is that you?’

Then I heard the toilet flush.

‘Gordie!’ I cried. ‘What’s up, man?’

But he hung up.

I guessed he just wanted me to know he was okay.

About a week after the

call, I got a picture in the mail of Gordie on a beach. His claws were buried in the

sand, he had a great big colorful drink full of fruit in front of him, and each little

wing was wrapped around the shoulders of a sexy flamingo. ‘Come to Florida,’ he’d

scratched on the picture in a sprawling script.

But I was sun allergic

and couldn’t stand the idea of dealing with a drunken bird. I never saw him again.

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michaelf

mmfowler@fuse.net
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