By McAvoy Layne…Anyone who knows me knows I’m devoted to Bacchus, and to my pet jay, Huckleberry, who comes to Twain Haven every afternoon at Happy Hour for a Beer Nut. Yes, Huck has been my daily Happy Hour pal for nine years now, and I’ve made arrangements for him in the likelihood that he outlives me…
Then just the other day, Huckleberry did something that brought me an imponderable thought. I now believe that upon a powerful force field, Huckleberry can read my mind. Now, before you scoff and set this epistle aside, please allow me to explain.
First, let me tell you, if I’m not paying attention, Huck will pound on the window with his beak to get my attention, or jump onto the flagstaff and wave Old Glory. If I happen to be out, he will raid the rain gutter and toss needles onto the deck as if to say, “I was here, where were you?” The needles are his calling card.
Once I appear and start to whistle his favorite song, “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore,” he waves his beak to the beat. (Huck was born here on our deck in 2017.)
Once, when I was out trimming my nails in the forest, I thought I detected a chipmunk playing on my shadow on the forest floor. Upon a closer inspection, I discovered it was Huckleberry’s shadow. He had positioned himself up behind me so he could dance his shadow upon mine. He’s such a playful character. He knows my car and once followed me down to the college hoping for a handout, which he got, and he waves his wings to me when I walk on and off the property…
But last week he did something unworldly. After leading me with his baton in “Don’t Get Around Anymore,” he stood staring at me, as if he wanted to tell me something but didn’t know how. I asked out loud, “What’s up, Huck?”
He took to fluffing himself up to about twice his size, and preening himself on both sides, which I had never seen him do before. Then he reached way back and plucked a feather from one of his wings, tossed it onto the deck, and looked at me as if to say, “Thanks, Pal. I don’t have much to give you, but how ‘bout a feather?”
I smiled a broad smile, and if eyes can tell us anything, he smiled back.
“Thanks for that, Huckleberry.” I said out loud, “I will keep that feather in a safe place.”
Today he came by and tapped on the window. It was only four o’clock, so I scolded him, “You’re too early, Huck, come back at five!” He did return at five, and I could have set my watch by his arrival.
In closing, I have to ask, “Can birds connect with us telepathically?
I now have an answer: “Huckleberry can.”
The next time you’re here at Twain Haven, I’ll show you that treasured feather…
Audio: https://open.spotify.com/show/7Fhv4PrH1UuwlhbnTT23zO
— For more than 35 years, in over 4,000 performances, columnist and Chautauquan McAvoy Layne has been dedicated to preserving the wit and wisdom of “The Wild Humorist of the Pacific Slope,” Mark Twain. As Layne puts it: “It’s like being a Monday through Friday preacher, whose sermon, though not reverently pious, is fervently American.”