Family Flash Fiction posted April 6, 2006

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Flash Fiction Sense n' sensibility message to human

Pet Mac

by Alcreator Litt Dear

O Yeah! He was Mac, my father's beloved pet.

He was no ordinary bird, but a wonderful speaking parrot. Thank God, he could speak those words only, and imitate the styles that my father had cared to teach him.

His imitating voice and caricature were bizarre, better than a Hollywood film actor, I thought.

My father was a meticulous, routine-bugged and punctual person by passion about pet birds. He indulged the bird. Sure, it was an inadvertent indulgence to him. A few people could only know why. By God, we all our Ray family members knew the reason though. But many of our neighbors said that he set an example of bird indulgence, and they considered my father a living example of pet loving and would often refer to new names of my father in appreciation. Consequently, in no time, my father became popular with new names 'Pet Mac Master Pat' and 'Pet Pat'. No wonder! Our neighbors began to call my youngest brother, 'PP's son' rather than his real name.

All this, just for a bird! My father conducted marathon vocabulary spelling-pronunciation gesture-expression tests for his wonder bird Mac.

My father indulged Mac enough, rather I would say, more than enough, and he started calling us new short names. Most of the time Mac called my father Patterson as Pattie, my grandfather Jackson as Jackie, my mom Baby as Boy, my younger brother Bobson as Bobbie, my youngest brother Rickson as Rickie. No surprise! Mac even dared to call our next-door neighbor Mr. Williamson as Willie, another half-crazy bird lover.

To everyone's surprise, one unforgettable evening, Mac did not speak, truly he appeared like a deaf and dumb bird migrated from New Delhi to New York.

No one knew what happened to Mac. My youngest brother ceased his studies that night. We all tried to make him speak, but he was only seen moving, sometimes strolling, and at some other time he was seen artistically displaying some unknown postures of listening. How could anyone guess? We failed to catch his strange act and behaviour. We tried applying our intelligence, but we were lost. Apparently, we could appreciate to conclude that he was trying to hear someone or something of elsewhere, in other words, I would say, as if he were endeavoring to listen to somebody or something of a world unknown to us.

Noticeably, he raised his greenish, large silky round head and swirled it round frequently, sometimes straight up and sometimes straight down, and sometimes to our main gate door eastward, or to the balcony westward, sometimes to father's study northward, or to grandpa's living room southward of our house.

"Speak up my dear, speak out," my father repeated, and repeated like a child.

I saw no failing in interest and vigor in my father, as he went on doing the same thing, as he had been doing since that late afternoon.

"Hey Mackie, say what's your problem, speak up my sweet Mackie, Mac what's wrong?" my father said.

I discovered my father's patience on that very remarkable day till night. He played many tricks, acted, caricatured and even mimed before Mac. He was performing better than a six-time Oscar winning actor. Mac did not speak though.

Mr. Williamson visited Mac at least once every afternoon. He assisted my father by doing something or the other. He was never weary of helping my father anyway in the course of teaching and mentoring Mac. He was proud of being self-declared 'Deputy Mentor' to Mac as he sometimes called my father 'Mac Mentor'.

We had no idea about Williamson's absence that very afternoon. We only came to know late that night that he died of severe heart-attack. We went to see his dead body for the last time.

Almost at dead end of night, we returned home, having paid our last respects to the stone-cold body of Williamson, Mac's Willie.

We just stepped inside our home, and the miracle occurred, as if it were waiting for the moment of our coming back home.

Mac resumed speaking, so eloquently, in that very lovable diverse voice, and greeted us saying, "Good night Pattie, Bobbie and goody, goody night Boy."

I saw my father was proud of Mac. My grandpa stuck with Mac's familiar sweet words, 'Ho Jackie, sweet dream."

Mac also paid a silent homage to Willie that night. I realized the essence of his paying tribute to Willie only when I became a major after about a decade.

"No Mackie, no, no, not this way, yeah, right, OK...."

The next morning, once again our house was alive with the sounds of teaching and learning. Mac continued qualifying in all the tests before my father. "Thank you Mackie dear, thanks for teaching us our sense and sensibility, it was a grand trick indeed," my father said and caressed Mac many times, just as he had done it so often before.



Sometimes, in my own style of expression, deliberately, I had to use some words repeatedly, for your better read and appreciation of gravity of the facts.

Thank you for read.

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