When Nephew Chick was just a wee tyke, one of his favorite activities was playing games. It didn’t matter how many times he played the same game, he always wanted to play it one more time. Though I worked hard to earn my self-proclaimed title of Coolest Aunt, this was one area where I fell woefully short.

I have an almost clinical aversion to game playing.

Sister Chick has dubbed me a Game Grinch because she LOVES games while I HATE them. Nonetheless, when she sent me a request to play Words With Friends (WWF) with her, I dutifully downloaded it to my phone and proceeded to play.

Just call me the Game Martyr.

Words with Friends is an electronic version of the game Scrabble. To start a game, you can either send a request to a friend if you know his/her user name, or you can have the program choose from a pool of random strangers who have indicated an interest in finding new electronic gaming partners. Much like the board game, you take turns back and forth creating words from a slate of 7 letters selected for you. To input a word, you drag the letter tiles into squares on the game board. The game will let you know whether or not the word you’ve submitted is legitimate by accepting it and tallying up your word score, or by rejecting it, thus forcing you to try again.

That first game was kind of fun. It’s challenging to come up with words from a limited selection of letters. Plus, I beat Sister Chick handily.

Not one to take losing lightly, she sent me another request to play and I beat her again. We played a third time and the results were the same.

Finally, she sent me one last request to play. I heard through the grapevine that she was very frustrated at her lack of wins since SHE is the one who loves games.

I beat her again.

By now, Sister Chick had had enough and refused to send any more game requests to me. Instead, she talked the Big Man into downloading Words With Friends and a Boggle-like word game called Ruzzle so that they could play each other.

In retrospect, I now realize that this must have been a grand scheme on her part to get revenge on me for beating her so many times.

The Big Man became a WWF and Ruzzle addict.

He plays in the morning. He plays in the evening. He plays in his car, with opponents near and far. He plays before sleeping and again upon waking. He even plays in bathroom and in restaurants and bars.

His passion for game playing is apparently limitless. Trying to talk to him while he’s playing is pointless—he expects me to wait until after he’s finished his timed, two-minute turn on Ruzzle. To make matters even more annoying, he turns up the volume on the games’ sound effects so that I constantly hear bells and chimes and clacks and dings from all over the house. I even hear these stupid noises in my sleep!

Sister Chick has had her revenge. She created a monster—one with whom SHE doesn’t live. The winning word in this game is f-o-u-l.

Well played, Sister Chick, well played.

What’s your favorite game to play on your phone/tablet/computer?

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Spring has most definitely not yet sprung here in Western Pennsylvania.

A crafty lawyer in Ohio has even filed paperwork to sue poor Punxsutawney Phil for his poor prognostication skills. Another Ohio prosecutor believes the furry little rodent deserves the death penalty.

I’m just as sick of the cold, snowy weather as everyone else, but I have a kinder, gentler solution.

Flowers. Lots and lots of beautiful spring blooms.

Sister Chick was in town for a whirlwind visit recently. We went to see a couple of movies, enjoyed “afternoon high tea” at a local bed and breakfast, did some shopping, ate lunch at one of our favorite local eateries, and took in the spring flower show at Pittsburgh’s Phipps Conservatory.

Blooms of every color and genus artfully adorned the exhibit rooms. It was chicken soup for the winter-weary soul. Words cannot do justice to the beauty of this exhibit. Fortunately, I took my camera with me. The photos speak much more eloquently than I can.

I hope this little glimpse of spring brightens your day and gives you hope that spring truly is just around the corner!

Welcome spring! Please hurry!

What’s your favorite season?

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Congratulations!

Today is your day.

You’re off to great places!

You’re off and away!

Theodore Seuss Geisel, otherwise known as Dr. Seuss, wasn’t referring to taking a ride on a Segway when he wrote those words, but they certainly apply.

What is a Segway? It’s a personal, electric transportation device. You’ve probably seen them on TV. They look like a flat box with a wheel on each side and a long t-shaped handle sticking up in the middle.

A Segway operates on a rechargeable battery and offers the benefit of zero-emissions to create a “green” mode of transportation. Understanding the engineering of this amazing device is too complicated for my right-sided brain, but the official Segway web site offers this explanation:

The technology inside a Segway PT consists of an intelligent network of sensors, mechanical assemblies, and control systems that balance and move you on two wheels. The second you step on, five micro-machined gyroscopes and two accelerometers sense the changing terrain and your body position at 100 times per second – faster than your brain can think.

Translation: Stand on it and it will go.

It all started with an email from my friend Allie Chick. She asked if I would be interested in taking advantage of a Living Social deal for half price on a Segway in Paradise tour of downtown Pittsburgh. I’m usually up for new adventures, and this was something I’d wanted to try, especially with the price tag coming in around $30.

We scheduled our two-hour tour on a weekday evening in early October. As Segway riding weather goes, we could not have asked for a better day. It was BEE-U-T-FUL.

Our group included me, Allie Chick and her sister, Stephi Chick, along with about ten others. The first order of business was selecting helmets, a required accessory for Segway riding. Most were black, but I managed to snag the snazzy red one that coordinated with my outfit (helmets that clash with one’s outfit are so gauche). After that we were each assigned a Segway unit, taught how to ride it, and ordered to go practice in a designated area.

At first, it was a little intimidating. To make the Segway move, you hold the t-shaped handle and simply lean forward ever so slightly, thus shifting your weight to the front of your feet. It’s the same thing to back up, except you lean back just a fraction. Turning left or right requires a marginal shift to either side. To slow down you stand up straighter, and to stop altogether you simply stand straight and level your weight on your feet. It sounds more complicated than it actually is.

After we’d practiced for a while, we were ready to take to the streets, or in this case the sidewalks, of the city. Before we left the building, our guide, a young man who appeared to be all of twelve years old and could benefit from a few lessons in elocution and diction (pardon my crabby old fart moment, but he was annoyingly difficult to understand), asked us if we’d like to “unlock” the faster speed option on the units. The Chicks and I were all for it, as were most of the others, but, naturally, there were a couple duds in the group who were afraid. Majority ruled however, and we were ready to rock and roll.

Riding a Segway does not make you feel as if you’re a participant in the Indy 500. It feels more like riding a bike than racing, and if you find yourself at risk of getting a speeding ticket, you just stand straighter to slow down.

We traveled across bridges, through the business district, along the river, and past a couple of ball parks, stopping once for a photo opp and to give our legs a rest. My favorite part was when we Seged our Way along the North Shore without the interruption of traffic lights and pedestrians. This was where we were finally able to test out those slightly faster speeds we’d been promised.

It was so much fun! I’m talking about epic levels of fun. The Chicks and I enjoyed it so much we wanted to purchase our very own Segways. After some research into the cost of one of these units, however, we decided that our budgets would be better served with an occasional outing via our local Segway tour provider.

If you’re blessed to live in or visit a part of the world where it’s Segway weather at this time of year and Segway tours are offered, I suggest you schedule your tour immediately. Otherwise, make plans to take a tour as soon as the weather permits.

And don’t let that little issue of signing a waiver before you step on intimidate you. Everyone in our group, including the duds, survived our tour injury free.

Chickaliciousness: 5+ for fast riding fun

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What do you call your carbonated soft drinks? Soda or pop?

Surprisingly, there is actually a web page set up to track geographical variations in the use of these terms. Really. I’m not joking. You can even add your personal data to help them with this critically important project. Isn’t it comforting to know that there are people out there who have dedicated their lives to helping solve one of life’s greatest mysteries?

I call it pop–always have, always will—and I love the stuff.

In the interest of good health, I try to drink only drink water during the day. All of that changes once the evening rolls around. That’s when things get a little wild. In fact, I’ve been known to drink a WHOLE GLASS of the fizzy stuff in one night!

Call me crazy. That’s just how I roll.

My family decided to jump on board the party train and got me a SodaStream for Christmas. What could be better than making your own pop? World peace? Equality in the workplace? A lifetime subscription to the chocolate-of-the-month club? Perhaps, but being able to make your own pop is pretty nifty. And SodaStream does not disappoint.

It’s so simple to use. You just install the CO2 carbonator (a canister of gassy stuff) onto the back of the machine, add cold water to the reusable 1-liter BPA-free carbonating bottle with fizz-preserving cap (empty soda bottle) that comes in the box, screw the bottle onto the machine, and press the fizz maker. Three presses for average carbonation, more if you want to go wild.

I went really wild the first time I tried my machine. Since there were no bubbles in my water after each press of the fizz maker, I figured I needed to add more fizz. So, I pressed it a few more times just to be safe.

Here’s the first thing I learned: the bubbles don’t actually show up until you unscrew the bottle from the SodaStream machine. When the bottle is removed, the extra gas is released with a great whoosh of air, just like when you remove the cap from a bottle of store-bought pop. After all those presses on the fizz maker, my bottle nearly exploded off of the machine.

That brings me to the next thing I learned: Adding more carbonation to your pop results in hiccups. I hiccuped my way through that first glass of pop.

If plain old soda water is your thing, all you need is the machine and a canister of the gassy stuff to make dozens of bottles of it.

Soda water tastes like medicine to me. Fortunately, the makers of SodaStream offer many varieties sodamix flavorings to add to your carbonated water. My box came with a variety pack of flavors. Each flavor pack contained enough flavoring for one bottle of pop. I’ve tried most of the diet flavors in the pack. They all taste just fine, but the one I like best so far is the Diet Dr. Pete (i.e., Dr. Pepper). It tastes very much like the “real thing” in my opinion.

The true test will be when I buy the regular cola flavor. We’ll see if it tastes enough like genuine Coca-Cola to fool the Big Man.

According to the SodaStream web site and various consumer sites, you can actually save money by making your own pop. I haven’t done the math, but I imagine it would take a while before you realize these savings considering the cost of the machine (anywhere from $80 to $140 depending on the model and what’s included in the package). This article goes into that issue in depth. Moreover, by reusing the same bottles, you are doing the environment a good service—fewer empty bottles and cans in the landfills.

I do have one major gripe with the makers of SodaStream. So far there is no sodamix flavor for Diet Cherry Coke or Diet Cherry Pepsi. I tried creating my own version by adding 100% tart cherry concentrate to the bottle of diet cola I made, but the result was not pleasing to my discriminating palate. It tasted like cough syrup.

Hear me now, SodaStream makers! We the People want a DIET cherry cola flavor!

Do you own a SodaStream? What’s your favorite flavor?

Chickaliciousness: 5 for make-your-own fun

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My parents have a love/hate relationship with hot peppers. Mama Chick hates them. She’s what’s called a supertaster. She has ultra sensitive taste buds that can pick up even the slightest hint of heat. If one of us is making a spicy dish for a family dinner, we’ve learned to leave the “spicy” out of it.

Papa Chick, on the other hand, loves hot peppers. Forget the Scoville scale, he measures how hot a pepper or a dish is by whether or not it makes him sneeze. If it’s sneeze-worthy, it’s hot.

Sister Chick and I fall somewhere in the middle. We like a little spice, but find that a burning mouth tends to ruin our enjoyment of a meal.

Papa Chick’s love of hot peppers is not limited to taste. He also enjoys growing them. Lot and lots and lots of them. This year, his harvest was particularly plentiful. So plentiful, in fact, that he had to resort to drastic measures to get rid of his bounty.

He gave some to the neighbors. He gave some to Nephew Chick. He sent some with Sister Chick to church. He dried some, ground them into powder and put the powder into jars for cooking.

Then he got sneaky.

I was home visiting the family at the peak point of pepper season this year. Papa Chick’s plants were so laden with fruit that the air around his garden felt a bit warmer and you could almost smell the spicy aroma in the air. Before I left to return home, he asked me if I wanted any bell peppers (another pepper he grows prolifically) to take with me. I like to make stuffed peppers so I responded with an enthusiastic “you bet!”

In typical Papa Chick fashion, by 6 a.m. on the day of my departure he had picked and packed up the bell peppers into a brown grocery bag, and loaded the bag into my car. It wasn’t until I was unloading the car after returning home that I realized what he had done.

Hiding underneath the two bags of lovely orange, yellow and green peppers was another bag filled with more peppers. Jalapeno peppers. Many, many, jalapeno peppers.

If that were a bag of M&Ms, it would not have been a problem. But a bag filled with jalapenos…what’s a Chick to do?

Make soup.

I found this recipe online for Cream of Roasted Jalapeno Soup. It sounded interesting and I could just imagine how good the smokey, spicy flavor would taste.

The recipe called for 12 large, roasted jalapenos. That seemed like a lot, so I used 9. I roasted them on the grill and painstakingly removed the skin and seeds (wearing rubber gloves, of course) before blending them up with onion and cream and adding them to a soup base of thickened chicken broth.

Finally, the moment to taste had arrived. I’d planned an entire dinner around this soup. It was to be the featured performer in our dinner show that evening.

Hot hot hot hot hot!!!!!!

All you could taste was the heat from the peppers. Where was all the smoky goodness? Where was the creamy, rich flavor? It was unpalatable. The Big Man agreed. Our mouths were ON FIRE!

That pot of Cream of Fire soup is definitely one of the most major recipe failures of my cooking career. Papa Chick had some ‘splainin to do.

“You should know I don’t grow the mild jalapenos, Chick,” was his only excuse.

Lesson learned. The next time Peter Piper Papa Chick picks a peck of jalapenos, I’m going to stay far, far away.

What do you make with jalapenos? Tell me in the comments.

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“You know the Chick, she’s an animal lover.”

These words, uttered by PapaChick, are usually accompanied by an eye roll.

It’s true. I am an animal lover. Especially dogs. And birds. And all God’s creatures great and small.

As an animal lover, I am honored to share with you a guest post written by my friend and animal advocate, Kris Lamont. In the post below, Kris shares a very personal account of her efforts, along with her wonder dog Bean, to end breed bias against pit bulls through education, action, and advocacy. The raw emotion she expresses in her account of a recent experience working with dogs rescued from an alleged dog fighting bust exemplifies her determination to “fight the good fight.” 

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Fight the good fight. Those are words that I have been saying to myself for a long time.

It is something that I have always believed…fighting the good fight. I believed in standing up for the underdog, showing how great something is, trying to find the positive in the worst of situations or people. It’s not always an easy fight. And it’s one that I struggle with at times.

Almost 3 years ago I was ready to put those words into action.

I adopted a 5-month-old pit bull from a local shelter. My intention was to adopt a pit bull…to adopt Bean. I was ready to take on media sensationalism, people’s fears and skewed perception. I was ready to fight the good fight. I was going to prove to the general public how great this dog was. She and I were going to conquer the world.

I had my plan. We enrolled in puppy training classes. She passed her Canine Good Citizenship test and her Therapy Dog International certification. We were on our way and seized any opportunity to be involved as a therapy dog team.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that I needed more—more education, more focused advocacy, a better understanding of public perception. Though Bean was an awesome ambassador for the true nature of pit bulls, I needed more information, more involvement. And, I needed to better understand breed bias and discrimination toward these wonderful animals.

I fought not to get sucked into the bad that people believe and not to hate those that didn’t believe. Instead, I needed to educate them, let Bean educate them. Bean doesn’t use words but convinces people much more quickly than I do. She doesn’t hold a grudge and she doesn’t hate. I have learned so much from her.

In my quest to gain more information and knowledge, I discovered Hello Bully, a pit bull education, advocacy, and rescue organization. I learned there were people that felt the same way I did, that fought for the same things I felt were important, and loved a square-headed dog. Bean and I got involved educating, educating, and educating some more. The awesome people who volunteer with Hello Bully believed in Bean and me and helped us in our mission to fight the good fight.

I recently had the opportunity and privilege to work with dogs that were confiscated from an alleged dog fight bust. The experience was overwhelming. It left me amazed, heartbroken, sad, and hopeful.

What do you mean that all people don’t love dogs as much as I do? What do you mean that people intentionally hurt dogs for entertainment? Why don’t all dogs go into a loving home where they are walked, fed, given clean, fresh water daily, and provided with a warm bed? How can it be that some dogs don’t know how to walk on a leash, or go up steps, or through a doorway because they are tied outside all the time?

My previously happy, little “a dog is a family member” bubble was busted. I had no coping mechanism for this. Ignorance is bliss…truly. It’s safe and warm and not sad.

I sat and watched the dogs, listened to them, gave them a kind word and friendly pat. How do they forgive so quickly, trust with everything they are, have a wagging tail, and lots of kisses?

I don’t deserve it. I am human and we (as humans) have hurt them. But they are willing to give me a chance…maybe because I listened to them, made a pact that I would be gentle, and gave them time to smell me.

It seems so simple but really, it is that simple.

BREATHE. I breathed, relaxed, felt for tension and backed off when they told me to. The dogs spoke loudly and clearly, I just needed to listen.

For some of the dogs their journey is just beginning and for some it is over. But they are ALL safe now. They have food and water and a soft place to sleep. I continue to be in awe of their ability to adapt.

The only thing I know how to do now, after my return, is cry. But crying doesn’t fix it. It doesn’t fix the fact that everyone doesn’t love a dog as I do, that dogs are used and abused for dog fighting, that every dog doesn’t make it to a good home with a warm bed, and that every dog doesn’t learn to go up steps and through doorways.

So I cry some more. I have cried every day for almost 2 weeks. I don’t know what else to do. I haven’t learned where to store it yet. My heart breaks for those that won’t have the opportunity to be a “normal” dog.

I have to continue to help. I have no other choice. I can’t be the one who just sits and does nothing.

Bean and I will continue to fight the good fight and we will continue to be the voice for the voiceless. It is our obligation to make this world a better place and know that the bad will always happen but the good has to be stronger.

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I hate yoga. It’s boring.

Breath in, strike a pose, breath out, hold the pose, breath in, change the pose, breath out…

B.O.R.I.N.G.

The names of the poses kind of crack me up, though. Downward facing dog. Feathered peacock. Cobra. Child’s pose. And then there’s my personal favorite—the warrior pose. I can just picture Mel Gibson’s blue-faced, wild-haired William Wallace character in Braveheart yelling to his army “OK, men, breath in, warrior pose, breath out, hold, look up, and inhale!” as their opponents charged at them.

Although I like variety in my workouts, I’ve avoided yoga classes like the plague. Curiosity got the best of me, however, when my favorite fitness studio, No Excuses Fitness by Kelly, began offering aerial yoga classes.

That’s right, yoga has taken flight. Supposedly, even if you don’t like regular yoga, you’ll like the aerial version. That’s what the studio’s owner kept telling us, anyway.

Aerial yoga incorporates “silks” or fabric slings that are hung from the ceiling to help participants achieve traditional yoga poses. The silks hold your body weight in some of the poses, enabling you to swing, invert, and isolate muscle groups.

“Don’t worry,” our instructor said before class started. “These silks are rated to hold up to 1000 pounds.”

I’d been wondering if they could withstand the weight of my “womanly curves.”

At first we used the silks minimally and mostly for some general stretching exercises. I found them helpful in maintaining balance—always a challenge for me. Then, gradually, we began to incorporate them into more complicated yoga poses.

She instructed us to fan out the silks behind us and gather a portion into our hands. After we had sufficient fabric in our hands, she told us to push down on the gathered fabric while lightly jumping up and back into a sitting position within the silk. It sounds more complicated than it actually is and the end result was that the silk now served as a very comfortable swing.

Then she told us to stretch out the gathered fabric and lay back in the silk so that our entire body was supported by it.

No problem. I could use a nap.

This is where things started to get interesting.

From our prone position within the silk, she told us to raise our legs so that the bottoms of our feet were pointed toward the ceiling. This much I could do. Then she told us to lower our legs toward our heads and use our abdominal muscles to bring our butts up. The result was supposed to be a full inversion so that our badonkadonks were above our heads.

Well, I tried, but this Chick’s badonkadonk just did not want to cooperate.

“Use your abs!” she instructed.

“I am!” I replied. “I think my stomach is too big!”

I could not invert. Stupid abs. Stupid stomach. Stupid badonkadonk.

None of the other Fitness Chicks had any problem with this move.

Fortunately, there were plenty of other poses in this aerial yoga class that I could do. And there were some that I could not. Regardless, I felt like I got a good workout from it. Those yoga poses require you to use a lot of muscles, with or without the silks.

A few Fitness Chicks have complained of feeling lightheaded or a bit nauseous during aerial yoga class, while others experienced no problems whatsoever. Due to allergies and frequent inner ear imbalances, I expected to have a problem with the swinging motion of the silks and was pleasantly surprised that this did not bother me at all. I know my limits, however, and did not attempt a few of the poses that I thought might affect my equilibrium. This was not a problem, as many of  the poses can be modified to adjust for individual needs.

I hate yoga—traditional yoga, that is. It’s boring.

Aerial yoga, on the other hand, is kind of fun.

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Left to its own devices, the human body is a smelly thing.

That’s why God invented soap and deodorant. He probably got tired of the stink wafting Heavenward and planted the idea of deodorant in the head of an unknown inventor in Philadelphia who is credited with creating the first brand of commercial deodorant in 1888. Soap has been around much longer than deodorant. The earliest evidence of it dates back to 2800 BC.

While most of us have access to these products, some choose not to take advantage of them. I learned this firsthand when I spent a summer studying in France during high school. A friend calls this “going Euro.” I call it smelly.

I’m a huge fan of scents of all kinds—the good kind, not the smelly kind—perfumes and body powders, the smell of an Italian restaurant, buttered popcorn at the movie theater, the interior of a new car, freshly mowed grass, Christmas trees, and brownies baking in the oven.

For my personal hygiene regimen, I like to layer on the scents, starting with a clean body and building out from there. I call this my personal scent story; and NO, I do not reek like the fragrance section at a department store. I like clean, subtle scents that smell fresh, as if you just stepped out of the shower.

I also love the smell of fresh laundry, so I bought Unstopables In-wash Scent Booster by Downy when I spied it in the laundry aisle at the store.

It’s a whole new chapter for my scent story.

The concept is very simple. Simply shake some of the little pellets into your washing machine before you add the dirty laundry (or right on top of it) prior to starting the wash cycle. Then do your laundry as usual. Hot, cold, warm water wash—it makes no difference.

That’s all you need to do. The end result is clean, scented laundry that holds its scent even after drying.

Unstopables come three scents:  Fresh, Lush and Shimmer. I’ve tried the first two but haven’t seen the third in any local stores. I find the Fresh scent to be stronger and a bit more floral than Lush and tend to use less of it because of that. For an extra-large load of laundry that includes sweaty gym clothes and towels, I use about 1/3 of a capful. You have to experiment a bit to find a scent level that works for you but does not overpower.

Though the Big Man generally does his own laundry, if I happen to do a load for him, I use the Lush scent because, to me, the scent is a little more subtle and slightly beachy. He has not noticed the wonderful smell, but that’s not unexpected. Unless the clean laundry has a football game projected onto it or jumps up and bites him in the nose, he’s not likely to pay attention.

I love this product. After washing my gym clothes with Unstopables, I wore them to class and found that I could still smell the clean scent even after working up a major sweat. That’s quite an accomplishment considering that I tend to perspire (women don’t “sweat” after all) like a linebacker.

Unstopables cost about $7.00 for a 13.2 ounce bottle.

Chickaliciousness: 5 for fresh and fragrant laundry

How do you keep your laundry smelling fresh?

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It’s been hotter than a hotcake on a griddle (I think that makes me sound southern, don’t you?) here in Southwestern Pennsylvania this summer. I’m talking the kind of hot that makes you crabby, tired, and sweaty just by stepping outside. Hot. Hot. Hot. I haven’t even been able to enjoy my Friday evening ritual of laying outside on my swing with a good book and a cold glass of pop. The shade from the swing’s canopy just isn’t up to the challenge of cooling 100 degree air.

Somehow, though, my garden has been thriving. I guess my plants enjoy this heat more than I do. Their only requirement is that I give them a good drink of water now and then since Mother Nature has been stingy with her watering can.

I know I’ll be wishing for some of this heat in a few months’ time when the skies are gray and the color has drained from the landscape.

Since I just got my new Cannon EOS Rebel T3 a few months ago and haven’t had much of a chance to practice with it, I took some pictures of my garden to remind me of the pleasures of summer.

Feel free to revisit this post over the winter or anytime you need a little dose of summer.

Lilies seem to be one of the few flowers that really thrive in my garden.

That’s my little garden oasis. What’s in your secret garden?

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I didn’t want to write this post today. In fact, I never wanted to write it. I wasn’t supposed to have to. Not now, at any rate.

It’s been three weeks, four days, and 23 hours since our beloved pet bird, Mr. Magoo, passed away. He was not quite six years into what was supposed to be a life span of up to 35 years.

Mr. Magoo

We got ripped off. Magoo developed a liver problem that ultimately took his life over the course of a grueling three weeks of illness under the care of four different veterinarians.

At this point, I’m supposed to be getting over my grief. In some ways I am. I can go about my day, get work done, spend time with friends and family, and appear normal to everyone who knows me.

As long as I don’t think about it too much.

If anyone asks me about Magoo, or expresses his/her sympathy, I have to struggle to keep it together. I cry over Hallmark commercials, so this isn’t all that surprising.

I’ve begun to wonder why I’m such an emotional basket case. Is my grief more profound than someone else’s? Was my pet more important to me than others’ pets are to them?

I doubt it.

I think the difference, if there is one, may be that the Big Man and I don’t have children or grandchildren who are the primary focus of our lives. For us, a pet serves as a furry, or in this case feathery, stand in to receive all the love, attention, and nurturing normally reserved for one’s progeny.

We got Magoo, a Meyer’s Parrot, when he was just a baby. I remember bringing him home and putting him in the great big cage we got for him with lots of fancy perches and toys and expecting him to immediately reward us with his unconditional love and devotion.

Magoo had another idea.

We had taken him from the only home he’d ever known and away from the sibling with whom he’d been raised. This is standard procedure when adopting a baby bird, but Magoo didn’t know this. He was afraid and very insecure in his new environment. His cage had smooth perches that his little feet (talons) were not used to gripping, the food and water dishes were in a different location, and there were two strangers holding out fingers that they expected him to step up onto.

Magoo learned to love playing with the toys in his cage.

It took a while for us all to get used to each other. Magoo spent the first four or five months of his life in our home bonding with me and showing distrust for the Big Man. Then, slowly, he started to bond with him. By the time we’d had him six months, Magoo had decided that the Big Man was his most favorite person in the world and I was a distant second even though I was his primary caregiver.

I was ok with this and was just glad we were one big happy family.

Over the years Magoo learned how to imitate many of the various sounds he heard around the house—the ding of the microwave, the sound of a pop can opening, the clinking of a spoon against the side of a mug when the Big Man stirs his coffee, the sound of water running, and even the grunting sounds the Big Man makes when he does sit ups. He also learned to imitate just about any silly sound the Big Man taught him while they spent time in the Man Cave on Friday and Sunday evenings.

Some of these sounds, I would prefer he hadn’t learned—the Big Man was trying to teach Magoo to belch after having successfully taught him to imitate the sounds of other bodily functions.

Magoo liked to burrow and the sleeve of one of my old shirts was a favorite place to climb around.

Some may think that Magoo was just a bird, but to us, he was one third of our little family. He was a joy and made us laugh every day with his antics. He was a needy little bird and wanted to be on my or the Big Man’s shoulder constantly, but that only endeared him to us more.

I miss my little Goo desperately but know that life goes on. I’ve been through this before with my previous bird who shared my life for over fourteen years. It’s all part of the circle of life that prepares us to accept the inevitable greater losses of family and friends.

Magoo will always hold a special place in our hearts and I pray that God has saved the perfect spot for him on his shoulder.

Magoo loved his little binky toys and sitting on the Big Man's shoulder.

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