To Kill a Talking Bird

Every time I call my sister I hear an annoying “SQUAAAWK!” in the background. My first assumption is usually that Katherine is watching another turbo-geek, sci-fi thriller starring some half-machine, half-bird, half-Joan Rivers creature who is really bad with fractions. But today I learned the truth: it’s not a dork flick after all - it’s her annoying bird, Bandit. And apparently Bandit has a lot to say!

This is a little snippet from our conversation:

“You know, (“SQUAAAWK!") Mom never liked you.”

“Uh huh. Does (“SQUAAAWK!") too.”

“Does not. Told me so (“SQUAAAWK!") last night. Said she tried to trade you in for a (“SQUAAAWK!") used Ford Pinto in 1975.”

“Shut up. You walk like (“SQUAAAWK!") Dad. And remember when you called (“SQUAAAWK!") crying from summer camp and I told you (“SQUAAAWK!") Mom & Dad weren’t home? Well who do you think was (“SQUAAAWK!") pointing and (“SQUAAAWK!") snickering in the background!?”

Or maybe we just talked about the weather. Anyhoo.

The point is that dumbass bird talks WAY too much. He even has his standard caged-bird jokes:

1.“What’s with the vertical stripes? That’s sooo last year” ( I love that one!)

2. “Perhaps I’ll hum a melody from my favorite song ‘Who Let the Dogs Out (and why won’t they extend the favor to me)?’ (Think he's bitter?)

3.“What the frig does Maya Angelou know?” (This one only comes when he's a little edgy after drinking. He usually slurs a bit by that point.)

So he's a clever little bird. And yes, I must admit, yesterday he really wowed us. He squawked his way through a detailed explanation of factors affecting fuel costs, which we had the darnedest time figuring out how he knew that stuff. (Then it dawned on us – his cage is lined with the New York Times.)

But he’s incredibly, ridiculously annoying! Stupid Bandit! SHUT UP!

I often ask my sister why she doesn’t just, uh, you know, accidentally leave his door open (of course, I have to repeat myself 3 times what with the GODDAMN SQUAAAWKING and all!). But she’s convinced her husband would be onto her.

So we’re devising a plan to, ahem, make the bird . . . expire. There are two conditions:

1. It must be semi-humane (I mean, we’re not monsters!)

2. It must appear to be a natural death or accident.

I suggested deep frying his little sunflower seeds to induce premature avian congestive heart failure. She suggested letting him run with scissors and a lollipop in his beak. We thought of removing the safety harness from his birdie swing, sending him outside with wet hair so he catches the bird flu, telling him his cage has been foreclosed and he's destined for financial ruin, or accidentally dropping a birdie-sized hairdryer into his bird bath (he’d never read the warning and know to just unplug it).

Of course, these are just ideas, and we still need time to craft the perfect crime. But we're getting closer! And one day soon, damnit, I will have a SQUAAAWK-free conversation with my dear sister.