Introducing Mr. Frods

This is Frodo, often known as Mr. Frods.

He was my dad's bird. Technically, of course, he belonged to both parents, but pretty much ever since his cagemate died over ten years ago, he bonded with my dad.

Dad would get him out and sit with him while watching TV, or take a walk around the property with him, or play tug-of-war with him with a pair of old socks. Frodo bit through more than one button on Dad's casual shirts, and bit through skin a few times, too.

Mom doesn't get along with Frods so well. She was talking for a while about getting rid of him, finding him a nice place with somebody who would pay more attention to him.

Every time she did, it felt like she was talking about giving away a piece of my dad. And I feel I've lost more than enough of him. So once this plan to buy a house became more solid in my mind, I decided I would take his bird with me when I moved.

I started spending more time with Frodo, talking to him while he was in his cage and sitting with him after tricking him off Mom's hand. Once I took him over to the refrigerator to show him the picture of him with Dad, and he started moving up and down excitedly. Even after a year, he still got hyper seeing his old friend.

There was one thing I was curious about. Would I be able to get him up off the floor in the middle of his playtime? To test this, we let him down on the ground for the first time in months. He went running straight to my parents' room, where he usually played, and stopped in front of the closet, out of which Dad had sometimes come to surprise him. He waited for a bit, but nothing happened.

He walked down to the bathroom, stopping to say, "Hi, Frods!" to his reflection in the hall mirror a few times. He turned the corner into the darkened bathroom, and Mom and I heard him start talking to himself under his breath.

Frodo has done this for years, this muttering that seemed ALMOST like words. We've never been able to figure it out.

We heard the click of nails against tile as he climbed onto the step of the shower.

"Hi, Frodo," he said quietly. "Hi, Frods." And he started his mumbling, which echoed in the enclosed space.

As I sat there listening, I thought I must be hearing things. But when I made eye contact with my mom, she looked startled, too, and she said what I'd been thinking: "He sounds like your dad!"

All this time, he has been trying to copy the voice of his favorite person. (We should have known earlier. My dad was always mumbly.) It was still indistinct, still like hearing Dad from across the house...but it was like hearing him.

This past visit, we let him go talk into the shower again, because the sound is enhanced in there, and we tried to pick out phrases. This time, I caught a few.

"Frodo. We're gonna go outside, Frodo. We're gonna go outside."

"What's in here? What's in here, Frods? What's in there?"

My dad used to say those things to him.

No way this bird ever leaves the family now.