My kids and I lived for a year in Nigeria. Absurdly, we adopted (the kids adopted) a rowdy, mouthy African Grey parrot named Ms. Penelope P. or Penny in less formal situations. Time came to go home - back to Canada, Penny in tow, with stops in England, Scotland and the Scandinavian countries.
The travel arrangements were tricky. Parrots, I learned were "birdies non grata" in a number of countries, therefore Penny had to travel undetected. I figured that if Penny were stowed in unremarkable check-in baggage and flew only in aircraft with heated, pressurized holds, we might get away with it. In preparation for this adventure in international smuggling I went to Ikeja Market and purchased a rusty budgie cage. I found a sturdy cardboard box into which the cage would just fit. Bird in cage, cage in box, lots of stealth air holes, a bit of twine and tape and Voila! - standard immigrant travel baggage that would attract no attention.
The ruse got us out of Lagos, through Ghana and past Customs at Heathrow. The cab ride to a spiffy hotel in Marble Arch was uneventful thanks to a chatty cabbie who talked more than a tree full of birds. At the hotel, I left my ragamuffins in charge of our formidable baggage heap and went to register. In the midst of the formalities, a blue rinse dowager late of some Brit comedy show steamed by my tattered luggage heading for the Desk. Moments later, the lobby resounded to piercing wolf whistles and cries of "Messy Fucking Bird", "How Are You?" and a stream of Yoruba insults. Penny was getting restive. Dowager turned to glare at my kids who tried to look innocent. Mahogany-tanned, unwashed and clothed in rags a Nigerian ditch digger would have burned as they were, they appeared anything but innocent. Let us say that Fagan would have found employment for them.
HMS Dowager sailed on. We dodged the bullet that time but not in Copenhagen a week later.
We arrived a 7:00 AM, collected our cartload of tattered luggage and headed into the "Nothing to Declare" lane. Penny, silent and invisible in her box sat atop the load. The sleepy Customs Officer asked his routine questions while my ragamuffins remained mostly out of sight behind the cart. All was well until the bird joined the conversation. "Hello, Bird! - Messy Bird! - Shit! - Supper Time! - Acaro, Ade! - More Yoruba, mostly obscene."
This outburst aroused the official's curiosity. He was not used to being yelled at in two languages by a cardboard box. He pointed to the box and beckoned. I complied; he opened it and gazed sourly at Penny, who continued to offer cheery greetings and suggestions.
"Nicht in Denmark", the officer declared. "Not since 1937", he added.
We were marched to a secure holding area to await the arrival of the Port Health Veterinarian. The vet arrived at noon and was clearly unamused by his summons. His dress suggested that he had been enjoying some sort of elegant affair appropriate to a warm Sunday in August - beige ultra-suede jacket, snowy-white shirt and gleaming tasseled loafers. Inside his office, Dr. Elegant consulted a large book dealing with birds and diseases thereof. ("Nicht since 1937". He did not know from parrots.) After a few minutes, he explained that he was required to ascertain the bird's rectal temperature. Before I could intervene he thrust his hand into the cage to capture Penny. Big mistake. With an audible snap, Penny seized his ostentatious gold ring with her usual 800 foot pounds psi. No contest - he was not going to escape unaided. Lying engagingly, I said that Penny was simply being playful, pried her beak free of the ring and extracted her from the cage. Next, at the now wary Dr. Elegant's direction I inverted a seriously pissed off bird to allow the insertion of a rectal thermometer.
Do you see where this is going? Thought so.
In the way of all escalating disasters, Penny indicated that she didn't much like this uninvited penetration by violently expelling the offending object together with everything upstream from it while freeing one large wing and flapping it vigorously. It was The Perfect Shit Storm.
Think ultra suede. Snowy white shirt. Gleaming loafers. Throw in gold-rimmed designer glasses.
There ensued a long, thoughtful silence. Dr. Elegant dabbed his face and gazed ruefully at his splattered clothing. I wondered how I would explain to the kids that the Government of Denmark had sentenced their buddy to death for assaulting an official in the performance of his duty.
At long last, Dr. Elegant spoke in icy, measured tones. "The parrot appears to be healthy. You may keep it in Denmark for seven days. "On the seventh day", he continued Biblically "...you must remove this bird from the country. My fee in this matter is 235 Crowns, payable immediately." The fee seemed a little steep. I think that he rolled in his cleaning bill and a few Crowns for a jug of Aquavit but I was not about to argue.
Penny made it to Canada and continued her irritating ways until her untimely death. Whenever I see a parrot (daily, thanks to the presence of EVIL BIRD - see previous posts) I remember the Perfect Shit Storm and the calm and decency of a good vet who did not wring a wretched, defecating parrot's neck on the spot.
Good people, these Danes. Even since 1937.
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