It was a parrot called Malcolm that finally pushed me over the edge. Always squawking on about fucking crackers or some such shit. So I never went to the pet shop again. Shame, really,because I had always enjoyed a visit there. I went to a party once, though, and saw Malcolm again. His repertoire had changed a bit by then and he won me over. Charming fellow, I must say. Knew the first lines of fifteen classic novels. If you said the title, he would give you said first line. Fun game to try and find the ones he knew. I can remember he knew A Christmas Carol (not read it, but knew the first sentence: easy to remember at three words long) and Pride and Prejudice (who doesn’t know that one?) I don’t think I know any others, actually, so if he was right I wouldn’t have known. Funny old bird, that. Not as strange as the parrots who live wild in this country. Weirder for them, perhaps. Or maybe not if they were born and bred in captivity. Malcolm was cool, though. Like to see him again. Anyway, I went back to the pet shop but the latest parrot was a shit too. I’ve not been back since. Shame, really, because I always enjoyed a visit there. I liked the little hamsters with their big cheeks and the rabbit babies and the guinea pigs. And the different size water bottles. And the fish: could watch them forever.
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