Brando Talks

When we first bought our macaw in late September of 1982, my wife, Cindy, and I named him Cesar, after Cesar Romero, the handsome Latin American movie actor famous for his smooth, suave speaking voice.

But after we had our parrot for several weeks, we decided to rename him, because try as we might to get him to mimic any phrase at all--even a simple “hello”--we could only get him to whistle and, occasionally, to emit a loud, ear-piercing squawk. Cindy said it sounded to her like Stanley yelling for Stella in "A Streetcar Named Desire," so she voted for Brando to replace Cesar as the bird’s name.

Even though we were disappointed with our inarticulate bird, the truth of the matter was that we grew attached to Brando. He wasn’t terribly messy, and he did have a winning twinkle in his eyes.

One night, about five or six weeks after we got Brando, I came home from work to find Cindy sitting in the easy chair next to his perch, a puzzled look on her face. She put a finger to her lips, indicating a wish for silence, and nodded toward Brando. As if on cue, the bird suddenly spoke out, clear as could be, "Help me! Please, someone help me!"

Now it was my turn to look puzzled. "His first words, and he wants someone to rescue him from us? That’s gratitude for you."

Cindy rolled her large brown eyes. "We’ve got a mystery here, you big lug. Why would Brando’s first clearly spoken words be a cry for help?"

I ran through the obvious answers. Had either of us left the television or radio on before leaving for work? Did Brando have some unresolved emotional or psychological issues of which we were unaware? Had Cindy herself screamed for help as she contemplated her mother’s fast-approaching weekend visit for Thanksgiving?

"No, no, and no!" Cindy replied to my teasing questions. "Hey--be quiet. Listen for a minute. I think I heard something."

I sat down in the easy chair beside her and did as I was told.

And then, after a few minutes of silence, I heard it. A faint, faraway voice crying for help.

Once again, Brando was right on cue, providing us with an immediate echo: "Help me! Please, won’t someone help me!"

I got out of the chair and headed for the window. After a momentary struggle with a stubborn latch, I had it open and was listening intently to the sounds of traffic on a chilly November morning.

"Please help me!"

I told Cindy to call 911, and I went outside with a flashlight to investigate.

Rush hour was dying down, but there was still the din of traffic to contend with. Although the cries were easier to hear when I was outside, the hum of tires on the pavement and the occasional blare of a horn made it difficult to determine exactly where the owner of the voice might be.

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