247 - Miss Trixie On My Shoulder
Those that know me know about our bird, Miss Trixie.
Alternately called a Quaker or a Monk parakeet (quaker because when they’re young they do the shimmy-shake all the time, monk because they have a gray forehead resembling a monks hood) I named our “Miss Trixie” from a character from one of my favorite books, A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole”
I’d put an actual picture of Miss Trixie here but it wouldn’t look any different. They all virtually look exactly like this (well, except for the rare blue ones) and, in fact, the only way to tell males from females is to do a blood test, or be another Monk parakeet because they can tell the difference.
Supposedly good talkers all our bird has ever done is the occasional squawk peppered with an some pig-like grunts when she’s particularly happy about something. I was disappointed by this for a while but in retrospect it’s a lot easier to get along with a quiet bird than it is one that blathers constantly.
Every morning the first thing I do is draw an espresso from my La Pavoni. As soon as Miss Trixie hears me hitting the grinder she knows I’m a stationary target, and, with a squawking battle cry, she launches herself across the dining room, into the kitchen, perching on my shoulder where she will spend the rest of the morning visiting with me as I have my first Americano of the day, walking back and forth, bumming pieces of cereal, and pooping on my shirt. Not happy about the droppings but they have the virtue of not stinking at all and they wash right out.
