HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Citizen, 2008-02-28, Page 5THE CITIZEN, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 28, 2008. PAGE 5.
Bonnie
Gropp
TThhee sshhoorrtt ooff iitt
The bad sleep
Ever come across a book you wish you’d
read? Happened to me last week. The
book is called Breaking Bad Habits in
Parrots.
I wish I’d read that book 25 years ago.
That would be just before I laid out 600
bucks for Sydney, a blue-fronted Amazon.
Sydney, the pet store owner assured me, would
prove an affectionate, intelligent and
altogether heart-warming pet.
The pet store owner lied. Sydney was a
feathered fiend. A winged wolverine. An avian
antichrist.
‘Sydney’??? His name should have been
Satan.
Sydney had three prevailing habits. He
shrieked and shredded and shat
indiscriminately – frequently all three at once.
He shrieked when he was in his cage; when
he was let out of his cage he destroyed
everything he could put his beak to, and that
which he couldn’t besmirch he be-guanoed
with gusto.
When I began to entertain fantasies of
grabbing Sydney by the neck with one hand,
my 12-gauge Remington with the other and
taking both out on the front lawn for a spot of
impromptu skeet-shooting, I knew it was time
to divest myself of Sydney in favour of a more
benign animal companion, such as – oh, I
don’t know – a rabid wharf rat, perhaps? A
black mamba?
Sydney went back to the pet store, the owner
of which refused to give me my money back.
I didn’t mind. Knowing he would probably
spend the rest of his life with Sydney was
recompense enough.
It was just the luck of the draw, I guess. If I’d
been hanging around a pet shop in Stamford,
Connecticut back in 1977 I could have shelled
out a few bucks and bought Alex, a one-year
old African grey and possibly the smartest
parrot the world has ever known.
Scratch that. Alex became the smartest
parrot, etc., thanks to Dr. Irene Pepperberg, a
Harvard scientist. She bought Alex, and over
the next 30 years she taught the bird to
describe objects, how to make his desires
known – even how to ask questions.
In doing so, Dr. Pepperberg turned the
science of animal linguistics on its pointy little
head. Until her experiment with Alex came
along, most researchers had concentrated on
trying to teach chimpanzees and monkeys how
to speak because, well, they’re more like us,
right? Closer on the evolutionary scale and all
that.
Only problem is, as much as simians
resemble us, their vocal chords simply aren’t
up to the job of reproducing human speech.
Whereas parrots can at least…well, ‘parrot’
what they hear, be it a telephone ringing, a
barking dog, or human speech.
But Dr. Pepperberg took linguistic ability in
animals to a whole new level. She proved that
not only could Alex talk like a human – he
could think.
By his mid-20s (still young for a parrot)
Alex could identify and name 50 different
objects. He could also name their colours,
their shapes and even the materials they were
made from. He understood concepts such as
‘bigger’ and ‘smaller’, could count up to six –
even appreciated the concept of ‘zero’.
And he had personality to burn – including a
finely-honed sense of mischief. Once, at a
press conference, Dr. Pepperberg struggled to
get Alex to vocalize the shape and colour of an
object she held in front of him.
Alex snootily ignored her, and the crowd of
reporters grew restive.
Desperate to give the press something to
write about, Dr. Pepperberg left the stage to
bring on another African grey, hoping the
presence of another bird would stimulate Alex
to ‘open up’. As soon as she had left the stage,
Alex looked at the audience, leaned into the
microphone and murmured quietly, “Triangle.
Purple.”
Just how smart did this birdbrain get? Smart
enough to have a vocabulary of 150 words;
smart enough to ask for specific objects – and
to reject items that were not what he asked
for.
On the evening of Sept. 6 of last year, as Dr.
Pepperberg prepared to leave the lab, she bid
Alex good night.
“You be good,” said Alex. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” said the professor.
“You’ll be in tomorrow?” asked Alex.
“Yes,” said the doctor, “I’ll be in tomorrow.”
Doctor Pepperberg would, but Alex would
not. He died in his cage that night, of natural
causes. He and Dr. Pepperberg had had their
last conversation.
I’d tell you about the last conversation I had
with my parrot, Sydney, but this is a family
newspaper.
Arthur
Black
Other Views A tale of two parrots
Premier Dalton McGuinty is planning to
end a longstanding tradition and it raises
just a whiff of expectation he may be
starting, at last, on a promise to bring change.
The Liberal premier has said he wants the
legislature to stop reciting The Lord’s Prayer
at the start of its daily proceedings, because it
no longer reflects the province’s diverse
population.
This may seem a minor issue, because few
see the legislature and prayer even on TV, but
the ritual is a symbol Christianity is Ontario’s
dominant faith and has been a practice since
the Legislative Assembly of Upper Canada
first met in 1792.
For most of that time Ontario’s population
has been overwhelmingly Christian, but it now
has large immigrant groups including
Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists and Sikhs, plus a
small but vocal population of Jews.
McGuinty has a valid argument when he
says a prayer in the legislature should reflect
the views of all the population and the current
prayer should be replaced by one that does.
The Progressive Conservatives, when in
government before the Liberals, rejected
several attempts to stop the legislature reciting
The Lord’s Prayer on the argument this
discriminated against prayers of other faiths.
A Conservative Speaker of the legislature
also dismissed an argument reciting it violates
Canada’s Charter of Rights and Freedoms,
which he claimed has no jurisdiction over the
internal practices of the legislature.
The Conservatives will resume their fight to
continue reciting The Lord’s Prayer, or at least
have it included in a new prayer. Some
evangelical Protestants also have said quickly
The Lord’s Prayer should be retained because
Christians created Canada, but by this measure
Aboriginals could be said to have an
even prior claim, because their religions
were here earlier.
McGuinty’s move inevitably will be seen as
an attempt to please immigrants over longer-
established groups and win their votes. The
latter should not be ruled out.
But the public in the end is more likely to
accept the view an institution such as the
legislature should serve the needs of the
population of today. McGuinty in any case has
enough votes in the legislature to ensure it
approves his plan.
Ontarians can be forgiven for feeling
apprehensive of change, because it has not
brought only benefits.
All political parties once viewed gambling
as immoral because it takes money from some
who need it for the necessities of life, but
government now pushes lottery tickets on
every street corner and helps organize cheap
bus trips and top entertainment acts to lure
people to its casinos. Successive governments
have managed their affairs so they cannot pay
their way without them.
The province used to sell alcohol in stores
with windows painted over so passers-by
could not see money being exchanged
furtively for bottles, but now proudly displays
them and showers residents with slick, glossy
magazines to coax them to buy.
The province ended a ban on Sunday
shopping, so mothers who work weekdays can
buy groceries weekends. Now many take their
kids around stores as their Sunday outings and
others have to work in them and have lost the
day on which most families can be together –
are these improvements?
McGuinty won the 2003 election with the
slogan “choose change,” but he has not
provided much real change. He has initiated
few radically different or novel programs.
He won his second successive majority
government in October, which should enable
him to feel he has a mandate for change.
The Liberals, in addition to changing the
prayer, have announced they want the
legislature to sit normal business hours and, if
their past is a guide, will have O’Canada sung
in the legislature once a week, which they
supported in opposition. The first is mere
tinkering and the second could offend only
music-lovers.
But the Liberals now have more power than
they have had in more than half a century. If
they are to make real changes, this is the time.
Eric
Dowd
FFrroomm
QQuueeeenn’’ss PPaarrkk
McGuinty starting to bring changes
First it’s the stillness you notice, a silence
as dense as being underwater. Not
a whisper of sound flows through the
air.
Then it is the darkness, total and complete.
You have ensured it. Panels hold back any
possibility of even a chink of light shining
through. You are cocooned by it, wrapped in this
opaque blackness, peaceful and relaxed in total
isolation.
Gradually, however, the contentment begins
to fade as realization dawns. Eyes become
accustomed to the night and shadows of images
around you begin to be revealed. You become
aware of the slow, rhythmic breathing of your
partner beside you, of the gentle stretching of
the pet on the floor nearby.
And of the fact that you are about to enjoy yet
one more sleepless night.
Like many women, I long ago forgot what it
meant to have a good night’s sleep. It would be
safe to say that there hasn’t been a good eight
hours, or five for that matter, of solid, restful
sleep since sometime BC.
Before Children, that is. Even blessed with
babies that slept through the night didn’t save
me as I would often lie listening to them or for
them. It was at this time that I began to wander
a bit in the wee small hours, checking to make
sure blankets were tucked in, children were
deep into blissful slumber.
What happened when they hit their teens is
not something I need to explain to other parents.
Sleep patterns were often displaced by restless
times of worry, pacing or impatience. Even
when my kids’ well-being was assured, sleep
was elusive until all the birds were safely back
in the nest for the night.
I heard each creaking door, every tread on the
stair, the making of any midnight snack.
And with a gap of 10 years between youngest
and oldest, these times of fitful dozing and
waiting stretched out over quite a lengthy
period.
So it was that there was at least one promise
of the empty nest I longed for, a home where the
end of the day generally came at the same time
for all inhabitants. I looked to that with great
anticipation; it would be the good in what
otherwise felt not so good, the reward for me
bravely facing my children’s departures.
Some reward. There is still no night of good
sound sleep. Basically, all I can say now is that
my insomnia is predictably unpredictable.
First there is the mystery sleep ... will I, or
won’t I. Then, conversely some nights my head
blessedly hits the pillow, and the light is
immediately extinguished only to be switched
on to wide-eyed wakefulness in the pre-dawn
hours.
There are occasions when I seem fearful of
missing some mid-night fun, my busy mind in
battle with my tired body and spirit and
winning. Irritating hours are spent not in an
unconscious paradise, but riding a wave of
turbulent power naps.
Finally there are the times when the witching
hour casts its spell. It can happen anytime
between midnight and 3 a.m. The mind awakes
and for the next couple of hours I toss, turn, flip
and flop beyond exhaustion, beyond frustration.
Apparently this is the wrong approach.
Everyone says rather than fight, get up, read a
book, have a cup of tea or do some work.
Easy to suggest, but when I think of spending
the next day at a job, that idea never has seemed
particularly attractive. It would relinquishing
any chance for sleep. Once up, I’m up. So I
choose instead to battle back to oblivion.
It is, after all, better to go down fighting, I’ve
always thought.
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