Bob Richardson arrives
home at his usual
“What are you doing with Butch?’ he inquires.
Butch is a three-year-old parrot that belongs to Marge and Malcolm Sweeney, friends that live in an apartment across the hallway from them.
His wife Roberta said, “Right after you left for work this morning, Marge came over and told me that her mother was on her way home from the store last night when by a drunk driver rammed into her car; she’s in a Cleveland hospital.”
“What’s that got to do with Butch being here? You know that bird hates me.”
Every time Bob and Roberta went to the Sweeny’s for cocktails or a friendly game of Canasta, Butch would sit on his perch and squawk at him until Marge put him in his cage and covered it up.
“He doesn’t hate you, dear, you just don’t understand him.”
“That’s right, and I don’t intend to try.”
“And that’s why he squawks at you, he wants you to give him a little attention.”
“I have more important things on my mind than to pay attention to a stupid parrot,” Bob says, “besides, that does not explain why he’s here.”
“Well,” Roberta started,
“Marge has to go to
“A couple of days!” Bob exclaimed.
“I’ll look after him, dear, you won’t even know he is here.”
Since the bird is already there, Bob realizes that he has no choice and calmly states, “Very well, you look after him, keep him quiet and all will be well.”
Butch sits placidly on
his perch in the corner of the dinning room while they have dinner and later
relax in the living room. Roberta watches television while Bob reviews and
revises some computer program printouts. After the
Bob is sleeping peacefully when he abruptly wakes from the sound of a woman’s scream. He turns and looks for Rebecca; she is still sound asleep. He gets out of bed, goes to the window and looks outside. He sees no one out there and starts back to bed when he hears it again; a blood curdling screen from a woman who sounds as if she is being murdered, and then a cry “HELP!”
“That sounds like it’s coming from the next apartment,” Bob says, “Damn, these apartments walls are thin.” He hurries to the wall switch and turn on the overhead light. Rebecca is still asleep when the next scream and cry for help pierces the apartment complex. Bob puts his hand on her shoulder and shakes, “Wake up, Rebecca, someone is being murdered next-door!”
She slowly opens her eyes and groggily asks, “What’s wrong? Why are you waking me…” she looks at the clock, “at two in the morning?”
“Because someone is being murdered next-door,” he repeats.
Rebecca, now wide awake, springs out of bed asking, “Who is being murdered – and where?”
“I don’t know who, I just heard a woman scream for help.”
“When?”
“Just now, three times already.”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“That’s because you are such a deadhead…”
“What!”
“When you sleep, the building could collapse and you wouldn’t know it until you woke in a pile of rubble.”
“Very funny,” she started to say when they heard it, “Screech, HELP, screech, HELP, screech.”
On the way to the bedroom door, Roberta exclaims, “My god, that’s Butch!”
He follows her into the living room, “You can’t be serious. You mean to tell me it’s that damn bird making all that racket.”
Just then there is someone pounding on the front door, “Open up – police.”
“This is just great,” Bob, says, “you answer the door and explain to the cops that it’s a stupid bird being murdered.”
No sooner than ‘stupid bird’ is uttered than, “Screech, HELP, screech, HELP, screech.”
From the door, “Police, open up or we’ll break it down.”
“Hold your horses,” Bob shouted at the top of his lungs, “I’m coming.”
He opens the door and three armed policemen burst through the door. The lead cop orders, “Get your hands up where I can see them.”
Bob complies but Rebecca flops down on the coach rolling in laughter.”
“What’s so funny, lady?” the cop demands.
With tears of laughter streaming, she says, “Officer, you don’t understand. It was Butch.”
“Butch, who – where’s the woman that screamed?”
“There is no screaming woman,” Bob says, “over there,” as he points toward the perch in the corner, “Butch is a parrot.”
“I can’t believe that,” the officer says, “We got three calls from this apartment house reporting that a woman was screaming for help.”
Rebecca concurs, “My husband’s right, it was the parrot that screamed.”
The cop walks up to the bird and says, “Was that you making all that racket?”
Butch cocks his head, flicks his topknot, gives an innocent double blink with his angelic eyes and softly squawks his placid parrot squawk.
“That doesn’t sound like any woman’s scream to me,” says the cop.
“I’m sorry, but it was,” Bob insisted, “I saw him the last time he did it.”
“You see officer,” Roberta interjected, “Butch is not ours; he belongs to some friends of ours who are out of town. This is the first night the bird has been away from home.”
“A case of homesickness, I suppose,” the cop sarcastically said.
“We are sorry, officer. It won’t happen again.”
The cop says, “See that it doesn’t,” then to his men, “let’s go fellows.”
After the police leave, Bob confronts Rebecca, “I knew that stupid bird…” a squawk came from Butch, “would be trouble, and you bird – shut up. I’m going back to bed.”
All is peaceful the next morning except for the many curious looks he receives as he leaves the apartment complex for work. That evening, the bird is a perfect angel. He sits quietly on his perch, preening and cooing.
At two in the morning, there is a repeat performance of the night before, including the police. As the cop is leaving he says, “That’s it! If I hear of one more complaint, you are going downtown for disturbing the peace.”
“Good,” says Bob, “I didn’t want that dumb bird anyway.”
“Not the bird — you,” says the cop as they are heading out the door.
“Why me,” Bob protests, “I didn’t scream for help.”
“Maybe not, but you’re the one going to jail,” and the door closed behind them.
The next morning, Bob drops a small suitcase by the front door on his way to the breakfast table.
Rebecca asks, “What’s the suitcase for, where are you going?”
Bob declares, “I told you that bird hated me. I will be at the Y until either Marge or Malcolm comes to collect that animal. I don’t intend to go to jail over a neurotic parrot. Call me when it’s gone and I’ll come home.”
Three days later, both Marge and Malcolm are back and Butch has returned home. That night, after dinner Bob asks, “Did you tell them about what their bird did?”
“Yes, Dear.”
“What did they say?”
She says, “Malcolm asked me to tell you that he wants to see you.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t say, but he thinks it was very funny.”
“He does, does he? Let’s go find out what he finds so amusing.”
They cross the hall and knock of the Sweeney’s door.
Marge opens it and says, “Hi, come on in. We want to thank you for looking after Butch.”
They walk into the living room, Butch is sitting on his perch in the corner, and before Bob could say anything, Malcolm asks, “Did Butch hear you call him, ‘Stupid’?”
Bob hesitates, then says, “I guess – maybe – he did.”
“Then that explains everything,” Malcolm says.
Butch squawks his female scream, then “Ha ha, Ha ha, Ha.”