However, one day late last spring I just had to go into the co-op feed store and fork over some cash for a couple of things I needed real bad. Like I say, I hadn't even been inside the place in several months. Much to my surprise, during that time Buster and his sons had added a whole pet store to their line of tack, seed and feed. Why, they had everything in there from tropical fish to boa constrictors.

Ol' Buster came in from loading some feed for a lady in a pickup truck and he spied me gandering at his zoo. "Stan, I ain't seen you in here in a spell." Buster always was real astute.

"Nope," said I, "reckon not." I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I was between a rock and a hard place. Not that he didn't know it, but I wasn't going to say it.

Buster motioned to me. "Forget about them lizards. Come take a look at this South American parrot. Came all the way from the jungles of Brazil."

"Do tell," says I. "Looks like he could take a piece of meat out of a man's hand better'n a snapping turtle."

"No, no, no," Buster protested. "Why, this parrot is gentle as a butterfly. And he talks and sings, too."

I wasn't too impressed. "So what? When I was a kid I had a parakeet that would say a few words. You know, �hello,' �pretty boy' and other classy stuff like that."

"No, no, no," Buster said, again. "You're missing the point here, Paregien. This parrot is a veritable linquist. It can recite the Pledge of Allegiance and it can even sing Roy Rogers' song, 'Happy Trails'. "

Despite my 8th grade education, I musta missed out on learning what a veritable linguist was. But I blamed sure understood that he must be one smart bird if he could recite the Pledge of Allegiance and sing Happy Trails. I know for a fact that 90 per cent of the folks at Martha's Coffee Shop couldn't do what that parrot could do.

"You know," Buster whispered to me, "somebody who understands how to work with birds could take this parrot and teach it more songs and make a pile of money entertaining folks at banquets, corporate parties and nightclubs. Reckon what the Tonight Show would pay to have a guest like this on their show?"

My mamma didn't raise no fools. I could see right away what Buster meant. And I got the fever real quick. I could already see folks just throwing money my direction faster than I could scoop it up. The Lions Club circuit. Elementary schools. Nursing homes. The Improv in Los Angeles. Our names in lights on Broadway in New York City. "Parrot and Paregien." No, on second thought, "Paregien and Parrot." It was time to grab for the golden ring.

I tried to look and sound disinterested in the parrot. "Reckon a bird that size makes big messes, doesn't it? Fellah would probably have to pay a high premium for liability insurance just in case he was to bite somebody with that snaggaly-lookin' beak of his. Looks to me like he might be sick, why, look at all them feathers scattered around in his cage."

Buster began to hem and haw, and I knew I had him on the run. I told him, "I sure hate to see this pathetic bird get into the hands of somebody who don't know a hawk from a hummingbird. Tell you what, Buster, I see you've got him priced at $250. You throw in that cage and, well...it's against my better judgment, but I'll give you a hundred dollars just to see that he gets a good home before those animal welfare folks come through here."

I knew my horse trading skills would come in handy one day. Buster was sweating like a truck driver at a revival. He grabbed my hundred dollars and loaded that parrot in my pickup and was proud to get shut of it.

Well, boys, I took that parrot back to my place and set that cage up in the den on the coffee table. And we began to look one another over. I didn't want to start off too quick, so I let him get adjusted to his new home while I went outside and did my chores. Right after supper, though, I commenced to coax him into talking and singing. I figured we better get his routine polished and down pat before the word got out and folks starting phoning me for performance dates.

"Hello, parrot," I said. He looked at me and said nothing.

"How about saying the Pledge of Allegiance for me?" I said. He kept looking at me and kept saying nothing. "Hey, I'm easy," I said, "if you'd rather just sing Happy Trails, why, go ahead and sing." He blinked twice. Then he looked at me and said nothing. This went on until midnight and all day long the next day. I couldn't get him to respond in any fashion.

So early the next morning I crawled in my pickup and bounced on down to the feed store. I explained the situation to Buster. He thought for a minute and then he said, "I don't understand why he won't perform for you. Hmmmmm, let's see. Did the parrot ring his little bell?"

"Bell? What bell?" I said in a voice weakened by constantly talking to that dadgummed parrot.

Buster said, "Oh, I guess I forgot to tell you that he likes to get everyone's attention by ringing his little bell. And then he performs like a trooper. This bell came with him and, since I don't have much use for it, I could let it go for $25"

"I don't want him to perform like a trooper. I want him to perform like Roy Rogers," I replied as I reluctantly handed the money to him.

Back at the ranch, I hung that little silver bell in the parrot's cage. He pecked at and rang the bell a few times, but as much as I begged him to talk and threatened him if he wouldn't sing, he just stared back at me.

So the next morning I drove my pickup back down to the feed store and caught Buster by the sleeve and said in a voice that sounded like a rooster does when its neck is being wrung, "That crazy bird won't sing or talk."

Buster seemed genuinely concerned. "Still won't sing or talk, eh? Strange. Mighty strange. You say he rings his little bell. But does he climb his little ladder?"

"Ladder? What ladder?" I said, with this sinking feeling that show biz might not be quite as much fun as I thought.

"Oh, Stan, I'm sorry. I forgot to tell you how much he loves this little ladder that I have over here behind the counter. He's just like Garth Brooks or Reba McIntire, got to get some exercise to perform at top level. This ladder was hand-carved out of Brazilian nut wood, and though I may need one for the next parrot I get, I'll let you have this little ladder for just $50," he said with a knowing smile.

"Fifty dollars!" I whispered. I would have shouted, but talking to that parrot had strained my voice. "Jesse James used a gun when he robbed people; you use a smile. Give me that danged little ladder."

Back at the ranch, I slipped that little ladder in the cage right next to the little bell. Sure enough, the parrot rang that bell and ran up and down the ladder. He did that for 24-hours, while I tried to get him to talk and sing. I thought maybe he only understood Spanish, so I used my entire Spanish vocabulary on him--"Buenos dias," "Buenas tardes," "Buenas noches," and "Dos tacos". Nothing worked.

Early the next morning, I got into my pickup and despite my bloodshot eyes I managed to make it back to the feed store. I told Buster what had happened, which was nothing, and he could tell that I had put on my raking spurs.

"Let me get this straight. You say he still won't sing or talk, even though he rings his bell and climbs his little ladder. Oh, sure, it must be that he misses his little mirror. Here it is, this little diamond-encrusted mirror that is a steal at only $75."

By then I was too tired to quibble. Besides, I knew I better get back and get that parrot into rehearsals before David Letterman or Jay Leno called and begged us to be on their shows. So back to the ranch I went and into the cage that mirror went. And sure enough, that parrot rang his little bell, ran up and down the ladder, then preened himself in the mirror. But he still refused to talk or sing.

I jumped back into my pickup and ran over my mailbox getting onto the county road. I screeched up to the feed store and threatened to rain on Buster's parade. "Now, don't get upset," he said. "Let me think this through. He rings his bell, climbs his ladder and looks in his mirror. Oh, of course, there is one more thing. He must miss his little swing. Kinda helps him get into the rhythm of talking and singing, don't you know?"

"No, I didn't know," I whispered with my vocal cords slapping together like #4 sandpaper. "Buster, this better work. Or I'm gonna knock you so far it will take the sheriff's bloodhounds a month just to pick up your scent."

"Oh, no need to get out of sorts. This little swing, with the 24-carrot gold bar and braided gold rope, is just $150. Think of it as an investment, not an expenditure," he said, with that snake charmer grin of his.

Well, boys, I bought that little swing and I took it back and put it in the cage with the little bell, ladder and mirror. And right here I'm gonna just skip ahead to the next day, when I went back to the feed store. I was crying like a newborn calf separated from his mamma.

"Buster, my parrot--my meal ticket, future star of stage and screen--died last night."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Stan. But I didn't lie to you. That little swing was the key, but it took all them gadgets to make him talk and sing. What in the world happened?"

I wiped my nose with my sleeve and said, "That parrot never did get around to singing. But just before he died he did talk to me. The parrot said with his last gasping breath, "You fool, don't they have any bird feed at that store?"

I never did get to see my name in lights on Broaday. And I ain't never bought another parrot, either.

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