Christmas in Peoria is a time-honored tradition in my family, one we continue to celebrate even though all of the members of our clan under the age of 33 now live elsewhere. We strap ourselves into airplanes and behind the wheels of cars and get there, one way or another. The journey is a great test of my patience, as the only airline to have ever flown directly to Peoria from NYC went bankrupt within six months of its inception. Now, because too few people wanted to fly from New York to Peoria (and vice versa) to sustain a profitable business, I have to take at least one (delayed) jet and one (delayed) propeller plane to get there. For my brother and sister-in-law, the trip entails twenty hours of driving across the plains states in their mega-truck with two dogs, a macaw, and dozens of presents in tow. Our journeys are frustrating and long, but we soon forget about them when we step into our childhood home.
Immediately upon arriving last week I began behaving like molecules moving into a big box, something that I saw demonstrated in a science video in elementary school. The molecules get excited and bounce around the larger space -- exactly as I do when I move from my cracker box apartment to my parents’ two-story home. I run up and down stairs, in and out of each room, leaving a trail of personal items in my wake. For some reason once I'm in the home I lived in as a messy teenager, I begin to act like one again. Every corner that wasn’t already hosting a smiling Santa figurine or holly wreath was soon a place of refuge for my hats, gloves, books, and shopping bags.
And then came the beasts.
My brother and sister-in-law love their pets as children and wouldn't consider spending the holidays without them. Their dogs, although accustomed to the great outdoors of Wyoming, quickly settled into their new environs, with help from the doggie beds and toys that Greg and Beau strategically placed about the house. Roscoe, their blue and yellow macaw, resided in a cage that occupied one third of our family room. This cage was a jungle gym in every sense of the term. Watching our long-tailed, large-beaked houseguest adeptly move from perch to perch, down to the floor and back up to the top of his birdy-condominium, is like watching a well-rehearsed gymnastics routine. I was awed by the range of motion possible for a creature with no hands. Not only is Roscoe a skilled acrobat, but he also has lungs of immeasurable capacity, and is quick to scream, “Greg! Beau! Roscoe!” when starving for attention. If no humans respond, he resorts to a piercing “AWWWWWKKKKKKKK!” Roscoe would not survive one week in a NYC apartment -- his neighbors would find him, and cook him.
As for the pooches, they are a fascinating study in the domestication of animals. Although both dogs are mutts, by look and attitude they gravitate towards the breed of each of their parents. Chikotee (pronounced "Che-KO-tee"), although she appears to be a small, long-eared Doberman, behaves like her black and tan coon hound father. She is a hunter to the core and immediately upon arriving at casa de Perino sat vigil at the sliding glass doors leading to the back yard. With her nose pressed against the glass she spent hours watching for squirrels and rabbits, her body stiffening and ears perking upon discovering one. I actually found her behavior to be a bit rude and anti-social, until I realized it is her nature. Beau says that during hunting season Chikotee won’t touch her chow because she’s too revved up to eat.
Cutter, on the other hand, is a large, sweet but bumbling canine who takes after his border collie mother. More of a herder than a hunter, he is constantly shooing Beau away from the rest of us. He then guards her patiently as she eats a sandwich. Even his name comes from a shepherding term – “cutting” is the act of moving one animal away from the herd. Although not as graceful as Chikotee, Cutter's herding qualities are endearing, even though we didn’t spend enough time together to warrant him “cutting” me. Still, I felt loved, and was constantly rewarded with hugs and kisses from the quadrupeds. Chikotee is particularly affectionate (when she's not nuzzled up to the glass door, that is.) Every time I entered the room I was greeted with a vigorous pink tongue to the face. I think she liked my lipstick.
Amidst the chaos of black fur and blue feathers, the matriarchal Perino pet lingered behind the scenes. Gigi, my parents' ten year old African Grey parrot, perched on a large cage in the corner of the kitchen, from which she could watch us all. Parrots are notorious for bonding with one human for life, and I’ve heard sad tales of parrots who have outlived their human mates and fallen into a deep depression after their passing. Gigi has chosen my father as her favorite, and nestles on his shoulder while he watches television on the couch. African Greys are the smartest members of the parrot family, credited with having the intelligence of a five-year old child. This was proven by Gigi's Houdini-like skill in escaping her cage – even when it was closed – and shimmying down to the floor to stroll the house and nip at toes. The most remarkable quality of the African Grey, however, is its ability to perfectly mimic human voices. Unlike Roscoe’s mechanical monosyllabic attempts at English, Gigi speaks with perfect diction, in the voice of my mother. Many a Christmas past my brother has been summoned from his bedroom to the kitchen, thinking my mother was calling him, to find that it was only Gigi. There is nothing more surreal than watching Gigi as she preens my father during their siestas, whispering in his ear, in the voice of his wife of thirty-six years, “C’mere. Good girl. Ohhh.”
So this Christmas, a house that never hosted more than two hamsters became a location shoot for Wild Kingdom. Fur, feather, and human flesh mingled in blissful cohabitation. Occasionally we were treated to a surprise on the carpet or a parrot taking flight during dinner, but for the most part we got along well. Although I ventured out to meet friends, deliver holiday goodies, and enjoy a spell of people-watching (in the land of big hair, young moms, and cover bands the opportunities are endless), it was just as entertaining to stay home with the pets. When I woke up today in my tiny Manhattan apartment, with no dogs to lick me and no birds to request, “Want out?”, I not only missed my family, but also the animals who love them.
