I always walk past the pet store on Church Avenue. One day, I finally went in and asked if they had any talking parrots.
“Yes, you’re in luck. Herbie is a talking parrot.”
“Great, what does he say?”
“Good morning, how are you?”
“That’s nice, how much?”
I bought the parrot, and brought him home in his cage.
It was late, I covered the cage and it went to sleep.
The next morning, I uncovered Herbie’s cage and waited.
“Good morning, Herbie,” I said.
I had to leave for work, but on the way home, I stopped at the pet store.
“Herbie isn’t talking.”
The owner asked, “you mean when he walks up the staircase to his perch, he doesn’t say anything?”
“That’s the problem. He needs his staircase to talk.”
I paid the money and went home. I put the stairs into the cage. Herbie looked at it, walked up to the top, then back
down again. He was quiet.
I went to the pet store the following day.
“You mean when he walks up the stairs to the platform, he doesn’t talk?”
“I don’t have a platform.”
“Ah, that’s the problem. Herbie must have his platform.”
I paid the money and took the platform home.
The next day I returned to the pet store.
“Herbie is dead.”
“What! Did he say anything before he died?”
“Yes, one word, ‘food.’”