Free Enslaved by Ducks by Bob Tarte

Stanley’s behavior in our home contradicted much of what Lynn had told us. Though far quieter than Ollie, Stanley vocalized throughout the day at various volume levels, with an impressive roster of whistles, chirps, and the occasional squawk. Dinnertime unleashed Stanley’s miserly quartet of English-language words—“Big boy, Stanley” and “Hello”—along with an adamant rejection of his supposedly favorite foods. Pizza crust with or without tomato sauce was snubbed with a snap of the head. Apple slices were accepted into his beak only as a prelude to their being flung onto the floor. On the Neil Young front, not a single ditty from
After the Goldrush, Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere
, or a bootleg live LP roused a discernible tic of pleasure. Nor did the bathroom towel rack, shower, or leaky faucet.
    True to Lynn’s word, Stanley was gentle, though “gentle” barely scratched the surface of his almost neurotic timidity. Any unfamiliar object passing within a seven-foot radius made him jump and flap his wings. As a cage-warming gift, I bought him the kind of pressed-seed-and-fruit treat on a stick that Ollie would rip apart and devour the instant I hung it from the bars of his cage. But Stanley regarded the parrot paddle-pop as a threat, retreating to the far corner of his cage until I removed it. Toys brought an even more exaggerated reaction. Because he already had a bell in his cage, I thought Stanley might welcome other diversions. But merely showing him a second tiny bell or a knotted rawhide string ornamented with chewable wood beads was equivalent to strolling into the room with a hawk perched on my arm.
    Stanley’s nervousness made us nervous to approach him. Any encroachment of a hand into his personal space brought on the classic attack pose of lowered body, extended neck, and, if we persisted,bent head with open beak. But his demeanor markedly changed if we presented him with food. Unlike Ollie, who delighted in vigorously biting the hand that fed him, Stanley surprised us by accepting the smallest morsel of food with no attempt to nip us. I began with the largest double peanut I could find, nervously offering him the nut while grasping it by a withered root hair that dangled from the shell. Next I tried a single nut, then moved on to a series of progressively shrinking foodstuffs, from a purple grape, to a large lima bean, to a striped sunflower seed, and, finally, a couple of stuck-together cookie crumbs that Stanley had to brush his beak against my fingertips to extract. Had I been able to offer him a single molecule of a favored snack, I felt certain he would have claimed it with the same delicacy. Engaging in this safe form of physical contact with us was obviously as important to him as the food. Linda proved this the evening she softly called me into the kitchen while Stanley was slurping lukewarm herbal tea from a coffee mug.
    “Sweetheart, look at this,” she told me.
    As an overture toward being held, Stanley had climbed onto the mug that Linda was holding. I held my breath as Linda curled her index finger around the rim of the cup. “Watch it,” I whispered. Stanley leaned forward and softly encircled Linda’s knuckle with his black lower beak and horn-colored upper mandible.
    “He’s just exploring,” she told me, then held her breath as he nibbled her finger.
    I managed the same trick with Stanley a little later. But attempts to dispense with the mug and present him with a naked hand resulted in a nip. Even though they were minor compared to the bites that Ollie doled out daily, we were intimidated by the potential trauma that we knew Stanley’s powerful jaws could inflict.
    “There’s really no reason to be afraid of him,” I explained loftily to Linda. “Most dogs or cats could kill their owners if they thoughtabout it, but we trust them not to act like wild animals. So it’s the same with parrots. Just because they could take our fingers off doesn’t mean they