Donna Andrews - Well Always Have Parrots

Many thanks

To Ruth Cavin, Dan Kotler, and the staff at St. Martins; and to Ellen Geiger, Anna Abreu, and the crew at Curtis Brown. I love the fact that these days you dont even blink when I mention my proposed book titles.

To the friends who read and comment on whatever I come up with, usually on shorter-than-reasonable noticeSuzanne, Maria, Kathy, Dave, Paul, and the QBs. And to Dina and Rosemary for special help on this one.

To all the people who answered questions and shared anecdotes about the monkeys, parrots, and tigers they have known, with apologies for poking gentle fun at the creatures you loveand the hope that the resulting book makes caring for exotic animals sound as tough as it really is. Particular thanks to Ellen, Kevin, Shadow, Meredith, Pat (whose brother-in-law jogs with the tigers), the patient employees of several Washington-area pet stores, and the equally patient staffs of the D.C. Humane Society and the American Humane Association.

To the organizers and guests of the many fan conventions Ive attendedthe only people in the universe who know Im not making this stuff up, just changing the names. With affection, from someone who would be out there wearing a costume herself if it werent for all these deadlines.

To the Teabuds, who are always ready with cyber chocolate and virtual champagne in the good times and purple power for the tough spots.

To my family, who patiently endure being mistaken for Megs family and rarely ever throw things at me anymore when I exclaim, Oohdo you mind if I use that?

And most of all, thanks to the readers who make all this possible.

I woke up when Michael began screaming in the bathroom.

I pried open one eye and saw that it was 5:45. A.M.

Michael, I called.

He probably couldnt hear me, given the volume of noise he was producing.

Damn the man, I muttered, pulling the pillow over my head.

The racket from the bathroom changed to a loud gurgle, and while the hotels meager pillow might be adequate for sleepingjust barelyit couldnt muffle the sounds of a classically trained stage actor, diligently performing his morning vocal exercises. And gargling repeatedly with a variety of concoctions, to counteract the effects of a bad head cold.

Id have bet that the alternating doses of salt water, dissolved baby aspirin, and Listerine did more to irritate his throat than soothe it. But I knew better than to say so. In the several years wed been together, Id learned that things went more smoothly if I didnt try to argue with Michael about the various strange superstitions and crank health notions he shared with his theater friends.

I shoved the pillow aside, leaned over, and groped on the floor by the side of the bed until I found the program book Id dropped there last night.

Welcome to the Jungles of Amblyopia! proclaimed the headline. I paused to look at the group photo below. Michael looked dashing despite the corny costumea black velvet wizards robe, covered with phony magical symbols and allowed to fall open to show that he was shirtless beneath. Of course, maybe I was biased. Maybe to an unprejudiced eye Michael looked just as ill-at-ease as the rest of the cast of Porfiria, Queen of the Jungle the low-budget TV show that had catapulted him to sudden cult fame.

And brought us to this rather run-down hotel in suburban Northern Virginia, where the Friends of Amblyopiathe shows fan clubhad organized their first East Coast convention. For the next three days Michael and his co-stars would endure an endless round of panels, banquets, and autograph sessions.

Hed tried to weasel out of it by claiming a conflict with his other careerhis real careeras a drama professor at a small but prestigious Virginia college. But unfortunately his contract required attending a certain number of publicity events for the showand everyone had to be at this particular convention on direct orders from Tamerlaine Wynncliffe-Jones, the aging B-movie actress who played Queen Porfiria and, more to the point, owned the production company. Apparently attendance had been embarrassingly low the last time theyd held a convention with only the QB, as the cast and crew usually called her. To her face, people pretended that QB stood for Queen Bee, but even she wasnt stupid enough to ignore the obvious, slightly longer alternative to the second word. Since she never objected to being called the QB, I suspected she secretly relished the substitution.

So it was really the QBs fault that Michael had awakened me this early. I liked that thought. Much more satisfactory to blame her for the loss of my beauty sleep.

I was already resigned to losing my identity for the weekend. Instead of Meg Langslow, blacksmith, Id be Meg, shes-with-Michael. Meg, can-we-add-one-more-to-the-dinner-reservation. Meg, who should disappear gracefully when the swooning fans show up.