The Real Macaw(25)

“Had a fund-raiser in Charlottesville that night,” she said. “Or I would have. According to Clarence, the animal shelter belongs to the county?”

“I assume it does,” I said. “Given how small a population the town and county have, it doesn’t make sense to have separate facilities. There’s one school system, one library system. The chief is both chief of the town police and the deputy sheriff of the county, since the elected sheriff is older than Grandfather and a lot less active.”

“So if it’s a county shelter, why’s the town running it?”

“The county lets the town run most of the facilities that fall within the town limits,” I said. “Keeps the town council busy and out of mischief.”

“Okay, it’s making more sense,” she said. “Right now, we have to deal with both the mayor and the county manager because the shelter belongs to the county but it’s in the town. And we could cut the mayor out entirely if we found new premises for the shelter. Premises outside the town limits.”

“Our barn is not a viable option for that,” I said.

“No, it’s not,” she said. “I was thinking of someplace out at your grandfather’s zoo. But don’t mention that to him yet. I will, when I have all my ducks in a row.”

“Of course not.” The thought of Caroline railroading my grandfather into turning a part of his beloved zoo into an animal shelter charmed me.

“Of course, we want to get the county board to issue a strong no-kill policy before we let them have the animals back,” Caroline said. “What’s the best way to get that done?”

“Talk to Randall Shiffley,” I suggested. “He could enlist the rest of his family.”

“Hmm.” Caroline’s eyes showed a familiar fund-raiser’s gleam. “Big animal lovers, are they?”

I pondered the question. I rather thought the Shiffleys did love animals, but with a love that was tempered by the pragmatic realism of the working farmer. A love that couldn’t afford to get too sentimental about turkeys who’d be going to market for Thanksgiving. That could appreciate the beauty of a Virginia whitetail deer without losing a taste for venison. Left to their own devices, I wasn’t at all sure that the men and women of the county board would stand fast on the no-kill shelter policy. Too many of them had had to sell off their herds in lean years or put down ailing animals when they could no longer afford even Clarence’s low fees and lenient terms. I could see them, however reluctantly, agreeing to the change in shelter policy.

But having the town try to ram the policy change down their throats? Properly handled, that was exactly the thing that would make the board members dig in their heels like so many mules.

“Some of them are big animal lovers,” I finally said aloud. “But all of them are big Pruitt haters. Get Randall to talk to them, and make sure he knows this is a chance to spite the mayor and his family. That should do the trick.”

“Excellent,” Caroline said. “As always, you’re more help than any three normal people put together.”

She drained her teacup and strode briskly out the back door.

“What do you mean by ‘normal people’?” I asked, but she was out of earshot.

Still brooding over her comment, I finished my own tea and put both mugs on the counter at the base of the mountain of dirty dishes that wouldn’t yet fit into the dishwasher. I realized it was four o’clock, and I needed to hurry if I wanted to beat the Friday after-work shoppers to the grocery store. I grabbed my purse and the stack of totes and headed for the front door.

Which was standing open to allow Rob and several other Corsicans to carry the macaw’s enormous cage through it. I was waiting with reasonable patience for the path to be clear when I realized something was wrong.

“I think you’ve got that backwards,” I said. “The cage should be going out to the barn, not coming into our living room.”





Chapter 8




My objection had no effect on the Corsicans lugging the cage.

“Dad says we need to bring the macaw back inside the house,” Rob said. He seemed to welcome an excuse to abandon his comrades to struggle with their burden. “He’s a bad influence.”

“Dad? I wouldn’t say that. Just a little obsessive sometimes.”

“The bird,” Rob said. “He’s picking up bad habits.”

“I’ve heard his current vocabulary,” I said. “I can’t imagine anything he’d pick up from the Corsicans that wouldn’t be an improvement.”

“He’s learning to bark, growl, hiss, caterwaul, and howl,” Rob said. “Gets the other animals riled up. We had to move two Persian cats and a Pekingese into one of the sheds before they had a nervous breakdown. And every time he makes a noise like an animal in agony, all the Corsicans have to come running to check it out. He’s driving every other creature in the barn crazy, two- and four-legged alike. So Dad said bring him back into the house for a little bit, until we can find another place to keep him.”