Our bird stayed in the cage in the dining room. We stared at it and it stared into space. It was clearly my mother's bird. She called it Andy. We called it Satan. My sister, brother, and lined up in front of the cage taking turns saying, "Hello, hello, hello, hello." Forever. Remembering not to whistle.
My mother brought home a larger cage, an instructional book and a record: The Parakeet Training Record
"Your parakeet can teach itself to talk! " Thank God. I had no voice left.
"Hell-o bay-be! Hell-o bay-be! Want a kiss? Want a kiss? Hap-py day sweet-heart. Hap-py day sweet-heart. Hap-py day sweet-heart." Over and over again we played that record. Nothing happened. We gave up and my mother started yelling at it.
This time the bird talked back: "What'sa matter wit you, stupid? Go to hell you summa na bitch," In the exact voice of my mother.
-Terry Iacuzzo, Small Mediums at Large (page 44)
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