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Camilla was silent for a moment, then she spoke, and this time it wasn’t to address Alexa and ask her how dangerous cats were. “I remember the Bakers,” she said. “We used to live just down the street, and the Baker kids used to play with my family’s kids.”

“What was your family called?” I asked, wanting to get all the deets before she lapsed into silence again or, worse, turned foghorn on us.

“The Haddocks,” she said. “This is a long time ago. I was a young macaw then, and had only just arrived in town. But the Haddocks treated me well, and even allowed me to fly around the house. The kids especially were very affectionate, and used to talk up a storm, asking me all kinds of questions. I loved it. I still see them from time to time, even though they gave me to their niece—my current human,” she explained.

“Oh, so you don’t live with these Haddocks anymore?”

“No, I don’t. The kids grew up, and Mr. and Mrs. Haddock moved into an apartment and unfortunately couldn’t keep me. And since the kids all live on the other side of the country, and one even overseas, they decided to give me to Laura Haddock. A wonderful person,” she said warmly, “and I couldn’t be happier.”

“That’s great,” I said, genuinely happy for the parrot. “So… about Boyd Baker?”

“Boyd Baker was a horrible person. He used to yell at his wife all the time. Screaming and shouting. Flaming rows. There was even a rumor he was an alcoholic and came home reeking of liquor most nights.”

“Is that a fact?” I said, giving Dooley a knowing look. “Rita Baker told our human that her father was a warm and loving man, and that her childhood was a happy one.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Camilla. “All I know is that those were the stories I heard. And the number of times the police had to come and intervene were numerous.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “So not such a happy home after all.”

“No, not a happy home at all,” the macaw said. “Or at least not in my recollection. Of course we all remember things differently, and you can’t always believe everything you hear. Take the Haddocks for instance. Rumor had it Mr. Haddock liked to play with toy trains. But that wasn’t true at all. He didn’t even collect trains. What he did like were toy soldiers. You see? Toy soldiers, truth. Toy trains. Lie. Very easy to believe in the lie and dismiss the truth.”

“Yes, well, I don’t think there’s such a big difference between toy soldiers and toy trains, though,” I said.

The bird’s eyes went wide. “Are you kidding me? There’s a world of difference, and you wouldn’t believe the number of times I intervened on Mr. Haddock’s behalf and told the pets in our neighborhood the truth. But do you think they believed me? Of course not. Kept spreading foul lies. Especially the cats, of course, because cats are vicious.”

“Excuse me,” I said. “That’s where you’re mistaken. Cats are not vicious. In fact only last night a dear friend of ours negotiated a truce with an entire colony of mice and managed to get them to evacuate the premises, all without a single hair on their heads harmed. So don’t you go spreading foul lies about cats, you hear?”

The bird was gloating, I could tell, but I couldn’t stop. It’s tough to have to listen to a bunch of lies.

“See?” she finally said. “I say one little thing and immediately you fly off the handle.”

“I was just trying to set the record straight.”

“And I was merely pointing out a few hard truths about your species and—”

“No, you weren’t. You were spreading falsehoods, and I, for one—”

“You can’t handle the truth, cat!” suddenly the parrot shouted, and both Dooley and I were taken aback for a moment.

“Now look who’s the violent one,” I said.

“Oh, don’t talk to me about violence,” said the bird. “Violence is having your wings clipped just because some vet was given bad information at the university.”

“Trouble with your vet, huh?” I said. “Trust me, I’ve been there. Do you know that last time I went to the vet she pulled three teeth? Three teeth!”

“Oh, three teeth is nothing,” said the macaw, and lifted her wing then parted her feathers. “See those scars? That’s where she stabbed me with a needle the other day. Allegedly so she could administer a vaccine, but we know better, don’t we?”

“Oh, yes, we do. This vet kept poking me with so many needles I thought for a moment she’d mistaken me for a pincushion!”

The bird laughed heartily.“What’s the name of your vet?”

“Vena Aleman.”

“Mine, too!”

She stared at me, a smile on her face.“Well, maybe you were right. Maybe not all cats are vicious.”

“It’s the vets that are the vicious ones,” I said.

“Too true,” she said, and flew over to where we were sitting, and held up one foot. “Put it there, pals.”

So I high-fived her, and so did Dooley.

“You should drop by more often,” she said. “It’s nice to shoot the breeze like this.”

“Oh, sure,” I said. “Next time we find the dead body of one of your old neighbors in the basement we’ll be sure to tell you all about it.”