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“How was your day, Mom?” I asked,
sitting down next to her. “I hope you
weren’t too lonely.”
“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “I had
my friend Sherlock to keep me com-
pany. He’s way more fun than Dr. Phil.”
Sherlock was my African grey par-
rot. I had bought him as a tiny, feath-
erless hatchling three years earlier.
Not only did he grow into a beautiful
bird—with dark feathers and a bright
red tail—but he was intelligent too. Af-
rican greys are known as the Einsteins
of the bird world, and Sherlock loved
to entertain us with his uncanny rendi-
tions of Jim’s cell phone ringtone, soda
cans being cracked open and even me
telling our golden retriever to “hush!”
While he and Mom didn’t exactly
have conversations, Sherlock often
chose to perch next to her and keep
her company when Jim and I were out.
Sometimes Sherlock would imitate
Jim’s voice.
“Hello, Eleanor,” he would say.
“Hello, Jim,” she’d say.
This would go on a few times until
Mom realized it wasn’t actually Jim
talking.
Mom and Sherlock took care of each
other. Though Mom wasn’t able to fill
Sherlock’s food and water dishes or
change the newspaper on the floor
of his play yard, she kept an eye out
and was quick to tell Jim or me when-
ever any of those chores needed doing.
Sherlock was her faithful companion.
Together they’d bird-watch, Mom’s
lifelong hobby. They would sit by the
window in her bedroom and look at the
birds picking at our feeders.
“We’ve been checking the feeders all
afternoon,” she would say when I got
home from work. “The one that holds
sunflower seeds need to be refilled
right away.”
So I would slip on my rubber boots
and head outside to the feeders. Mom
would wave from the window, Sherlock
by her side.
Mom passed away last winter at the
age of 94. Though my sweet parrot has
never said, “I miss Eleanor,” I know he
does. He still sometimes says her name.SAY MY NAME Donna’s African grey parrot,
Sherlock, has quite a vocal repertoire.