Disabled Pirate
Don’t ask me why, but lately I seem to be shopping with animals. Mostly dogs on leashes with owners who don’t mind bringing their fleas into the deli. I’m sure they’re what we call these days ‘Service Animals’. The majority of folks with these critters don’t seem handicapped, but then, who am I to judge? We all got our issues, some crippling, some not. Who knows, I might need a guide ferret myself before too long.
The other day I was in the local grocery’s produce section, squeezing celery, checking melons, test driving the rutabagas when this guy walks up next to me with a parrot on his shoulder. He wasn’t shopping for much since he didn’t have a cart or a basket. Maybe the bird was the one doing the shopping. “Crackers are next aisle over,” I said, just to be helpful. And to get him and Polly away from contaminating my vegetables, parrots being known to carry a fatal disease us homo sapiens can catch. Bluebeard came closer, obviously pleased someone was noticing his bird perched on his shoulder.
“I take Morris everywhere,” he beamed, proud as punch, which, I thought, was exactly what he needed. All this yahoo was missing was a peg leg, a Jolly Roger on his tricorn and a treasure map tattoo that showed the gold in the dairy section.
“I like to leave my animals back at the farm,” I said. “Something about food and bird flu makes me squeamish.” Before he could go Aaaarrhh, I wheeled down the line. I could come back for veggies, I figured, after Cap’n Hook moved on.
“Bite me,” a voice called out. I whirled around and the parrot repeated it. “Bite me, bite me.” My pirate looked mightily pleased with himself, no doubt having spent hours teaching Polly this witticism. I shook my head sadly. Sinbad grinned, snapped me a salute and headed for the fruit section. It’s a strange world … and not just on the South End.
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