Bobby Pacino is our macaw. He is nine years old going on either two or a hundred, depending on the day. He knows upwards of 130 individual words and phrases, and he uses all of them eerily well. He loves us and hates us in almost equal measure. And those feelings are mutual. (Just kidding! We totally love him. But sometimes our headaches do not love his Amazonian screams. And sometimes our soft, fleshy forearms do not love his razor-sharp talons. But mostly we love him to little blue and gold pieces.)
This afternoon I was a bit under the weather and decided to go soak up some mild sunshine with my feathery baby. We sat and talked. We sang the alphabet together and played gone-gone-peekaboo* with the bottom half of my apron for at least forty minutes straight. He drank my glass of ice water, and with every other sip his round eyes dilated and he hummed, “Mmmm… Do you like it?” He can be so appreciative of the simplest things. It’s because he’s read Voskamp.
Of all the surprising things I’ve experienced with Pacino in these past nine years, the most profound has been his ability to gauge and reflect my mood. No, more than that, my energy. My aura? Whatever you want to call it, this hollow-boned face-kissing, baby-chick adopting scream machine knows how I’m feeling from minute to minute and is happy to show that to me in his own ways. For better or worse, he mirrors my attitude right back at me, and I’m not always thrilled with what I see. But sometimes I do like what he’s mirroring, and we have a grand time together. Like today. Today we both were all peace and love, affection and song.
I suppose lots of animal-human relationships offer this insight, but Pacino takes it a step further. Insofar as correction goes, you cannot really tell him to do much of anything. You have to show him.
For example, if he is too hyper and his talons are scratching you, then getting worked up and edgy yourself will only make the situation worse. Instead, you must unroll them, the way you would a baby’s fist gripping your hair, from your thigh or your shoulder or your face or your ponytail, wherever they have become entangled or embedded. Calmly, ok? Let him know that’s a no-no and just chill. Let him soak it up. Maintain eye contact. Now say, firmly but gently, “Okay, Pacino? You gotta be pretty, ok?” He loves this sentence, no matter how insane his most recent actions may prove. If you say it calmly enough he will abandon all notions of a parrot tantrum and stare you down, right in the eyeball, and repeat this to you over and over again. You gotta be pretty, ok? Shh. Ok? You gotta be pretty, ok? It’s so hard not to laugh.
And if he is too loud for your taste, then you absolutely cannot, under any circumstances, yell at him and expect him to magically become quieter. It just doesn’t work that way. He will outmatch your volume and intensity every single time. Trust me. This is how Pacino tests my patience.
Every bit of this has me thinking again about the climate of passionate debate we’ve been experiencing so often lately. Not Pacino and me; we tend to agree on most issues (I think). But in society at large. Between political parties, across cultural and religious borders, among friends and family groups, everywhere. Has it always been so hot? Or is this new? What phase of the moon are we in, again?
This, then, has me thinking of the belief that only light can overcome darkness. That contributing to the fray, whatever it is and however important it is, with more angry noise always increases the chaos. This is what Pacino has taught me.
Speak Only to Improve the Silence.
XOXOXOXO
*I’ve posted two tiny video clips on Instagram, if you’d like to hear Pacino’s voice! xo Just follow the icon in my sidebar.
