spike luck is green ah! it's a tack attack! 011217 ... n. young motorcycle mama won't you lay your big spike down 011217 ... belly fire Corky. No, Spike. Early fall of 1987, my mother came across an ad in the pets section of the want-ads: "Looking for a live-in lover?" Intriguing. A PHD student was selling his last nest of Senegal parrots to a willing family. My dad jumped at the chance to have an eccentric feathered friend. (Have you ever owned a tropical bird? If not, all of this will sound rather crazy. If yes, read on.) Who could have thought a 3lb creature could have made such a huge impact on our family? He was the source of many stories, much laughter, some tears (dents, bites, scratches and SCARS for us kids)... something to imitate, someone to love. No words, but a collection of peeps, trills, whistles and shrieks - and they all had meaning: If Spike wanted a slurp of your oatmeal, there would be an excited "Whew-whitt!" You'd do your best to not ignore his requests, because they would get less polite. A deep HONK was: get bent. "PEEEEEEP!" was: front door... a SCREAM was: back door ("come back come back come back right now"). The soft grinding of his beak was a signal that it was bedtime and he was preparing to tuck his face into his back, pull one leg up against his belly and, with a sigh, retire. He clucked to the beat of a song. He laughed. He danced. We taught him to shake his head "no". (That was for all the times he'd scream too much and we'd pull out a spray bottle of water). Nonononono, he'd shake. Morning exercises. Bath time... at the end he'd come out looking like some creature... his feathers slick and dark, his scrawny neck bracing an over-sized head with wide, yellow eyes. And he'd preen and preen and preen until he was dry. Sword-fighting with a swizzle stick. What Spike loved: 1) Dad. More than anyone or anything. The sound of Dad's voice, a cuddle, a coo. He would whisper little sessing noises into his ears. (He's a sesser because he sesses) Make his wings into a heart if we came too close... sometimes a hearty growl. 2) Holes. He loved to peek inside an upturned hat, the button holes in the old brown couch, into a cup... My sister and I modified the REM song Man on the Moon into Spike on the Moon. "If you believe, there's nothing up there for Spike, nothing but holes!" (We drove our parents crazy singing that song for years like it was the most hilarious idea we'd ever had.) 3) Food. Not bird food. People food. Oatmeal, eggs, pasta, fruit, bones, ice cream, meatballs. He would eat a grape inside out and toss the skin. We even developed a sound effect for the way he'd eat an apple slice. Any food would do. Chips were for dunking and polluting his water dish. Eeeeew. Spike had many names. BOY. Sesser. Spikey Taylor (was a sailor. Who bit a girl named Laura Naylor. Whose father was a mailor (except he wasn't).) A story: One day Dad placed Spike's cage on the front porch and him bask in the warm, afternoon sun. I remember my sister running into the house crying her eyes out that Spike had, quite literally, flown the coop. Escaped! We listened for his whistle and tracked him to an enormously tall tree in our neighbour's backyard. His little orange belly glowing from at least 30 feet above, my dad fashioned as many poles together as he could find in the shed in order to reach him... but that only made him climb higher. We started to lose hope as the sun fell... and hours later he landed softly in a bush, clearly out of gas. He was an escape artist, indeed. He broke free from many locks over the years, destroying dozens of lampshades (dusty rose) and eluding capture from our various cats (I can think of 6 major near death experiences at the hands of his numerous nemeses). For all his adventures and near misses, Spike left our family at 28 years old, as the new year broke into the wee hours. Having tucked his face into his back, pulled up a leg against his belly, he sighed and then retired his last. Goodnight to you, my feathered little brother. How I will miss scratching the back of your neck, tenderly rubbing your ears and calling you Boy. 150101 ... fishawk So sweet. Birds are wonderful and so are memories. Thanks for sharing, I nearly cried, a welloved feathered friend by the sound of it indeed. 150102 ... fishawk So sweet. Birds are wonderful and so are memories. Thanks for sharing, I nearly cried, a welloved feathered friend by the sound of it indeed. 150102 what's it to you? who go blather from