Polly

Polly was not your average parrot. She was, as I liked to say, “an opinionated conversationalist in a feather suit." She learned over 50 words. No joke. But not just words, phrases. Once, during a thunderstorm, she shouted “Well, that’s unfortunate!” and I swear she meant it. She didn’t like my brother-in-law and would squawk “Go home, Larry” every time he walked in. We never taught her that. Polly had a routine. She demanded her banana chip at 10:30 sharp, screamed at other birds out the window, and told the vacuum to “shut up” weekly. She was with me for 18 years. Through my retirement, my knee surgery, my separation. Then one day, she stopped talking. I knew something was wrong. She passed the next morning. Quietly. Not her style. The house is weirdly empty now. I miss the nonsense. I miss the sass. I miss my little green drama queen. Goodbye, Polly. You made life much louder and better.