Before I begin part 2 of my story, my mother has informed me I need to correct one of my facts. Apparently Polly was a gift from my grandmother to my great-grandmother. All this time I thought it was an aunt’s bird. I guess that’s what I get for reaching down into the memory of a 10 year old, but now it’s all straightened out.
I was correct about a couple of things. Polly was a very smart bird, and he hated children due to my uncles’ actions during their childhood.
I left off when my mother took Polly in for a while. I truly think Polly was onto me. He knew how scared I was, and he spent a considerable amount of time in his cage planning his method of attack.
I remember a couple of pot pie nights in our house when Polly was allowed out of his cage to roam. My sister and I would sit at our dining room table with our feet tucked up as far under our behinds as we absolutely positively could get them so we wouldn’t lose our toes to Polly’s wrath. Our little girl ears could hear him walking toward us through the kitchen. To us, there was no mistaking the tap tap tap of little Polly feet on our linoleum floor.
As he would reach the doorway of the dining room, we would look at each other in panic and fear. Usually there would be a chorus of “MOOOOOM!! Polly is in the dining roooooooom!!” To which we’d hear the answer “He’s fine, girls, eat your dinner.”
And then Polly would get closer to us little step by little step. I forget which one of us it was, but either my sister or I got the brilliant idea of tossing pot pie crust pieces towards him in order to keep him busy eating and avoid his being close enough to chew our toes off. Eventually he would get enough to eat and leave us alone. Inside him was a little extortionist, I think. We lost large portions of more than one pot pie that way.
Polly had this giant iron cage that he lived in. Now because I remember these activities from my childhood, the cage could actually be a bit smaller than I remember it. I remember this cage being about 3 foot in diameter and about 5 feet tall. It took up a whole corner of our den when he stayed with us. His cage had a bar that happened to be bent just so, and this meant that Polly could occasionally become an escape artist. My parents would attempt to fix it, and within days the bar would be bent again somehow and he could squeeze through to freedom.
One afternoon, my sister and I were hanging out in the bathroom together (as siblings of the female persuasion are known to do) doing girl stuff- braiding our hair or something equally girly. As we went to leave the bathroom and opened the door, we stumbled into a world of terror we were totally unprepared for.
There in the door frame was Polly, who had stealthily snuck out of his cage 4 feet away, and waited silently outside our door in his little stalker mode. He knew I was in that room and he’d waited all these many years to carry out his plan of attack.
My sister and I both shrieked as loud as we could. Polly let out a loud squawk and came charging towards us, and there was instantaneously mayhem everywhere. I forget which one of us went where- it all happened so fast and all I really remember is the ultimate feeling of terror that everything I had spent my whole childhood fearing was finally coming to fruition.
All I know is that when all of the feathers stopped flying and the shrieking stopped, one of us was inside our claw foot bath tub shaking like a cold Chihuahua, and the other was completely horizontal on the top shelf of our walk in closet trying to blend in with the linens.
My mom showed up at this point with a broom handle, and Polly gave up his pursuit to hop onto it. She placed him back in his cage where he watched us, waiting for his next opportunity...
16 minutes ago