Free Reel Murder by Mary Kennedy

was more media savvy than I’d originally thought.
    “Well, Dr. Knudsen, let me start my saying I just loved your book,” Doris began. “I have four cats, two dogs, and an African Grey Parrot. It’s the parrot I’m calling about.”
    “Ah, yes, the Congo African Grey. Is he one of the Timneh subspecies?”
    “Um, I’m not real sure. He’s seven years old and I inherited him from my uncle. He’s blue and gold and he’s been talking a mile a minute since the day I got him.”
    Dr. Knudsen whipped out a pad of paper and began taking notes.
    “So Hercules is a talker,” she said thoughtfully. “Are you his primary caregiver?”
    “Why, yes, I am. Herb, my husband, gives him some dried corn from time to time, but when it comes to cleaning out the birdcage, it seems to be my job. Herb thinks everything is my job. You should see the cat boxes.” She gave a sardonic laugh.
    “And does Hercules talk to all the members in your family, or just to you?” Apparently Dr. Knudsen knew her limits and wisely decided not to play marriage counselor.
    “Well, mainly to me, come to think of it. But I figured that’s because I’m home with him all day long. I had a part-time job down at the Winn-Dixie but then I got laid off.”
    I glanced up at Vera in the control room, who was rolling her eyes, her finger on the CALL button. She made a speed-it-up gesture; she was probably as bored as our listeners. She added a quack-quack motion with her right hand, meaning we were going to a commercial shortly.
    “And your question is, Doris?” I cut in.
    “Oh, well here’s the thing: this bird is driving me crazy. Absolutely nuts.”
    “Really?” Lois stopped writing and pressed her thin lips together disapprovingly. “He sounds perfectly adorable; what’s wrong with him?”
    “He’s boring!” Doris exclaimed. “That’s what’s wrong with him. That dang bird talks all day about nothing. He’s just like my sister-in-law. He talks nonstop and he’s as dumb as a brick. Sometimes I throw a towel over his cage to shut him up and then he starts humming. Show tunes, but mostly ABBA. I wish I had a dollar for every time I had to listen to ‘Dancing Queen.’ He knows that song drives me crazy. Crazier than his stupid talking.”
    A faint flush had crept up Lois Knudsen’s cheeks. “Doris, what you call his ‘stupid talking’ is his vocalization. This is the only way he has of communicating with you. He obviously can’t text message you.” She chuckled at her own wit. Move over, Kathy Griffin! “Hercules sounds like an extremely intelligent, sociable bird and I really don’t understand your point. Are you annoyed because he’s talking too much—”
    “No, that’s not it. I told you; he’s boring. I don’t know how to say it any clearer. He’s duller than dirt.”
    Lois Knudsen stiffened in her chair and squared her shoulders. “All right, Doris, I’m going to give you a straight answer, but you may not like it.”
    “Right on!” Vera Mae mouthed from the control room.
    My guest licked her lips and took a deep breath. “Here is my professional opinion. Hercules is probably not getting enough intellectual stimulation from your company.”
    “What?” Doris squealed. “Are you saying I’m boring, too? Or dumb?”
    I saw Vera Mae’s finger hovering over to the boot button. We have a seven-second delay and if necessary she can cut off a caller in mid-sentence.
    “No, I’m not saying that at all,” Dr. Knudsen answered, her voice hard as granite. “What I am saying is that Hercules has nothing to say because he doesn’t get enough sensory input. For example, do you read to him?”
    “Read to him? Are you nuts, lady?”
    Vera Mae made a throat-slitting motion, but I shook my head. I was enjoying this too much to have her hit the MUTE button.
    “I would suggest you start reading to him every day. You can start with the newspaper, if you like, and then move slowly into fiction and even poetry. My own mynah