I Inherited a Parrot AND a Nightmare

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I CAN’T BELIEVE UNCLE FRANK LEFT ME HIS PARROT — SHE BIT ME

I yelped when the stupid bird latched onto my thumb; the blood welled up immediately.

The lawyer just stared; he clearly couldn’t believe Uncle Frank bequeathed Polly to me, his least favorite niece; the florescent lights hummed overhead. “She only likes men,” she muttered. “Your uncle…he had a will.”

Polly squawked suddenly. “Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!” Did they not realize I was allergic to birds? My skin crawled just being near her cage; I was getting itchy and my eyes were watering.

I finally managed to wrench her off. “Take her to the zoo! Rehome her! I don’t want her!” I screamed. “Frank always did things to irritate me.”

A voice piped up from the corner then.

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I CAN’T BELIEVE UNCLE FRANK LEFT ME HIS PARROT — SHE BIT ME

“Yes, well,” the lawyer said, adjusting his tie, “it seems your Uncle Frank was quite fond of… theatrical gestures.” He cleared his throat. “And, as you can see, his parrot, Polly, is a… significant part of his estate.”

The voice from the corner, it turned out, belonged to a wiry, elderly woman with a severe bun and a sensible tweed jacket. “Nonsense!” she snapped, her voice surprisingly strong. “Frank adored that bird. He wanted you to have her.”

I glared at the woman. “I am allergic! And she bit me!” I held up my throbbing thumb for emphasis.

“He left you something else,” the lawyer continued, gesturing towards a large, ornate wooden chest sitting in the corner. “A rather… unusual item.”

I cautiously approached the chest. Polly, sensing a potential threat, ruffled her feathers and let out a piercing shriek. I ignored her. Inside the chest, nestled on a velvet cushion, lay a beautifully crafted, antique pirate’s spyglass.

“Frank loved pirate stories,” the lawyer explained, “and according to the will, the spyglass and the parrot are… to be used together.”

The woman with the bun chuckled. “Oh, Frank. Always the romantic.”

Desperate, I asked, “Used how?”

The lawyer pulled a document from his briefcase. “It states here that you must ‘search for buried treasure with Polly’s guidance.'”

My jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?”

Suddenly, Polly squawked, “X marks the spot! Buried treasure!” She cocked her head, as if expecting me to understand.

Weeks turned into months. Despite my protests, I found myself, reluctantly, following Polly’s and her new pirate spyglass on a treasure hunt. It led me to my Uncle Frank’s old beach house, a dilapidated shack overlooking the ocean. Polly would squawk and point towards a specific spot, the spyglass would reveal clues etched into the sand at low tide that seemed to be written in an old pirate script, and I’d begrudgingly dig, cursing Frank the whole time.

Finally, after months of digging, the final clue, revealed by the spyglass at a full moon at low tide, led me to a buried metal chest. Inside, I didn’t find gold doubloons or jewels. Instead, I found a stack of letters. Letters from my Uncle Frank. Letters detailing his life, his regrets, his hopes, and, most surprisingly, his profound love for me. He wrote about how he’d watched me grow up, how he secretly cherished my rebellious spirit, and how he’d always wanted to connect with me, but didn’t know how. The parrot and the treasure hunt, it turned out, were his final, elaborate attempt to do just that.

I sat on the beach, tears streaming down my face, Polly perched on my shoulder, nuzzling my cheek. She hadn’t bitten me in weeks. The bird, I realized, wasn’t so stupid. And maybe, just maybe, Frank wasn’t so bad after all. The letters, and Frank’s treasure hunt, were a gift, and so was Polly.

From then on, the parrot became my companion, and I loved her.