The parrot was a mistake. Kendall Warner told me so, over and over. And in the end he was right. The parrot was a mistake. But mistakes have a way . . . .

    Let me back up. When you're the "weather girl" you want to use a little creativity. Did you notice I said weather girl? I suppose weather woman would have sounded too much like someone in a cape and tights, but the "girl" bit galled me. And don't think Ken, the anchorman, ever let me forget my humble status. To be honest, in the backwater county where we worked, neither of us had much status. Channel Three is not exactly in your broadcasting mainstream.

    But I was talking about the parrot. I had to punch up my portion of the news hour, now that Ken had gotten a raise for his "Johnny on the spot" —— makes you want to barf —— coverage of the murders at the upper end of the county. "Three lovely and innocent young women," he called them. One could argue about the innocence or loveliness of women who prowled the county late at night.

    Only in an unjust world could he cash in on murder that way. I was stuck with "fair and warmer on Thursday." Short of conjuring up a tornado, there wasn't much I could do with the county weather report. Not until I found Weather Bird.

    The idea for the bird came from a travel article on Singapore —— one of many desirable destinations beyond the reach of my paltry salary. I do well to make it to the far end of the county. Anyway, this article showed a parrot pulling a little rolled-up paper fortune out of a jar and delivering it to a gullible tourist. I figured something similar might work on the folks of Foothill County.

    I got the parrot in May. Not your usual green and red and yellow bird, but a scruffy gray one —— guaranteed to talk. And he did. In just a few weeks I had expanded his original vocabulary from,"Here, kitty kitty," to fair renditions of "hot" and "hotter." "Cool" and "cooler" were maybes; "warm" and "warmer" were beyond him.

    So, on the first day of June, Weather Bird made his debut. I plunked him on a weather map on the studio floor and asked him for tomorrow's forecast. Right on cue he hopped onto Chicken Creek and squawked, "Hotter."

    I know what you're thinking. It was dumb, but it worked. The next day was decidedly hotter in Chicken Creek. While you could argue that hotter was a pretty safe forecast on the first day of June, our viewers, such as there were, were impressed. Weather Bird became a minor celebrity and our viewership increased by a minuscule degree. And Ken was steamed to see me encroach on his territory —— the limelight.

    Ken countered by using his raise to buy a Corvette —— a red one with a removable roof. He proceeded to torment me with graphic tales of his rides around the county with the top off and a new babe at his side each night. Yes, he called them "babes." And he made it clear he did not consider me a babe. I never wanted to be anybody's babe, but I'll have to admit that cruising alongside a good-looking guy in a car to die for, with the cooling wind blowing through my flowing locks (okay, so it's short and wiry), did hold a certain appeal.

    By July everyone was tired of hot, so I decided to have the bird offer some relief, even if it was a lie. Most forecasts are lies, by the way, so I didn't mind having him say "cooler." With a little coaching he finally got it. Two days after his improved forecast a cold front took a jog our way. We cooled down 20 degrees. Ratings heated up, and I began studying travel magazines for suitable places to spend my raise.

    I had stepped on Ken's vain little toes of course. He retaliated by making me move Weather Bird's perch, claiming the bird was giving him the evil eye "like some Edgar Alvin Poe bird. "Good heavens, the ignorance of the man. Then he began prodding management to get rid of both the parrot and me.

    "It's a mistake, I tell you." I could hear his disagreeable off-camera whine all the way down the hall. "You've let that scrawny weather girl and her overgrown parakeet trivialize my news hour."

    It didn't work. Weather Bird and I were now driving the ratings, though I was still waiting for my raise.

    In mid-July Ken got even again when he informed the world —— well, Foothill County —— of the dramatic results of his "investigative reporting." Bring on the barf bag.

    He had, in his words, "helped the police to link up vital evidence." Although a hideous variety of weapons had been used, he said, a single killer had done the murders —— a killer preying on hitchhiking women. Hitchhiking women never struck me as very bright. But anyway, ratings went up several degrees. So did the temperature.

    Weather Bird obliged by forecasting "hotter." Foothill County got hotter. Our viewers were not amused. Just because the parrot cooled us off before, they seemed to think he controlled the weather. I tried my "cooler" ploy again but the bird couldn't get it. He managed to come out with a fairly respectable "warmer" a few times. But I didn't want warmer, I wanted cooler. Everybody wanted cooler. And so, by the beginning of August, management was taking seriously Ken's demands to get rid of the parrot and me.

    I decided it was time to slip away on another quiet foray to the far end of the county. Yes, I had occasional glimmers of guilt. But I got over it. When it's summer in Foothill County, and you're the drab, nameless, weather girl —— with only a parrot between you and unemployment —— you do what feels good. And my collection of wicked souvenirs was growing nicely.

    I didn't feel good for long. Ken was soon in his element with the discovery of another murder. Why was I not surprised? His coverage of that fourth killing was sensational in every sense of the word. Dramatic yet sincere, detailed yet not too gruesome. For his conclusion, he put his prepared script aside and delivered an impassioned discourse on the dangers of hitchhiking. "Don't accept a ride with any stranger —— even Ken Warner in his red Corvette," he concluded sternly.

    Why, I fumed, did murder always work to Ken's advantage? Ken, of course, became the station hero as our ratings went from a simmer to a boil. So did the temperature. And the parrot and I were in hot water, so to speak.

    It looked like Weather Bird was losing it. It was bad enough when he got hung up on "warmer." Now he was hung up on the same towns. But he was right. It did get warmer, even if the good citizens of Rabbit Junction and Hillside and a couple other towns didn't like it.

    Ken sure didn't like it. He goaded management to get rid of the "ugly bird that sounds like a broken record, and the homely broad who looks like its sister."

    We were dueling with bizarre weapons: Ken with his serial killer, me with a dumb parrot. Ken was winning, and at the expense of the "lovely Allison and Tiffany, Erica and Cynthia." Trust Ken to focus on their physical attributes which, quite frankly, were debatable. But at least they had names. I was still Weather Girl.

    On the twelfth of August I got a summons from management to come in early "for a talk." I had a fair idea what we'd be discussing. What I didn't expect was seeing Ken's Corvette in the parking lot so early. The way he bragged about his social life, I wouldn't expect to see the whites of his eyes before noon. He obviously didn't expect to see me. I walked into our cubicle to find him trying to throttle a screeching and flapping Weather Bird. Apparently he didn't know management was about to do the job for him.

    I'm known for my mild temperament, but I let loose with a torrent of verbiage that took even the worldly Ken aback. Then I stomped into management's office and told them pretty much the same thing. And then Weather Bird and I left. I figured they were all so shocked I could get a little reprieve until I got the parrot straightened out.

    By the next afternoon my intensive remedial training had paid off with a beautifully articulated "cooler." Weather Bird and I returned to the station on what I came to think of as the Ides of August.

    The sadistic partnership of heat and humidity had made us all a little crazy, so I assumed that accounted for Ken's about-face when he apologized contritely for stalking my bird. Then he asked me to go to Grand Lake with him after the news hour. Grand Lake. Only the county's most romantic, most secluded, hideaway. I couldn't say "yes" fast enough.

    Now, you might be surprised that a woman of my sterling character could really do it. Perhaps, you think, she got carried away in her last desperate attempt to end the summer's strife? Or maybe, you conclude, it was simply the heat.

    I'm quite prepared to use any of these as my defense. I only knew my moment had arrived. It was time to finish off this tiresome business with a conclusive demonstration of what Weather Girl was all about. I dashed home to stuff my tote with the spoils of my trips up-county —— with the most lethal of my prodigious arsenal. The drab innocent had a plan.

    By ten o'clock the damp heat still sat upon us like a big, slobbering, hairy dog. The studio fans slogged tiredly though heavy air. Lights seared, tempers flared, Weather Bird squawked. Ken threatened to strangle the parrot —— the rest of the crew threatened to strangle us all. The day was coming to a meltdown.

    I got the bird to shut up just in time to get the program started. Ken rattled through his spiel smoothly, covering farm prices and serial killings with equal relish and aplomb. I had to admit the guy was good. Minutes before the broadcast he was a madman. Now he was the calm purveyor of Foothill County's daily goings-on.

    If only Weather Bird could have been as professional. He forgot all his training and regressed to predicting "warmer, warmer, warmer" for the same locations he had before. But he did vary the routine by adding one new location. I hoped no one noticed my guilty flush. It was Grand Lake. Was the bird on to me?

    Normally, at this point, I would simply pick him up, take him to his perch, and turn the program back over to Ken. But instead, things really hit the fan. Okay, the fan was the only thing that escaped. Weather Bird was having none of the usual routine. He started by making two more circuits around the weather map, squawking "warmer" while I frantically tried to get my hands on him. By now we were off-camera, though the sound technician was having a cow trying to filter the "warmer, warmer, warmer" from Ken's broadcast.

    Then, just as the smoldering Ken was beginning his wrap-up, the screeching bird launched himself from the map and flapped noisily to the four corners of the studio. He finished by swooping into the handsome face of Channel Three's own wonder boy, Kendall Warner. Ken beat him off and stormed out, gray feathers and rumpled papers fluttering behind.

    "Either that girl and her stupid parrot go, or you can kiss my butt good-bye!" the whole county heard him swear.

    At the sound of screeching tires the flustered crew cut to a string of commercials. I cut to a string of epithets. My well-laid plans were fried. My so-called career was toast.

    But my more immediate concern was the crazed bird now bent on trashing our cubicle. With my most martyred sigh I went in to clean up the wreckage, first checking that the contents of my tote bag were intact. Weather Bird calmed down and perched on the edge of Ken's desk calling, "Here, kitty kitty," until I put down my bag and went over to the desk. The top was littered with credit card receipts and expense account forms. Just like him to do a summer's worth of paperwork all at once.

    The man had certainly done a lot of traveling in his serial-killer quest, I thought, as I sorted through the mess. I was tempted to just forget it. But as I put the credit card slips into order, I began to notice the dates.

    I went out to the studio and looked at the weather map, retracing the five places Weather Bird had forecast to be warmer. Warmer indeed. The bird never did learn to say warmer. In one thudding heartbeat I was on the phone to the Grand Lake police.

    While I explained my theory in a quavering voice, I watched Weather Bird rummage through my tote bag, deftly scattering my entire Victoria's No-Longer-Secret collection across the room.

    It's June again, and it's getting warmer. But not to worry. When I want to cool off I simply give myself chills remembering the "romantic" moonlight ride I almost made to Grand Lake that sultry August night.

    I'll never forget my first newscast the very next night. It was decidedly my best. Dramatic yet dignified, with no hint of the relish I felt. And what a story it was. All about how the Grand Lake police rescued the intended victim —— the one who could have been me —— just as she accepted a ride with a man she knew so well. A man she invited into her living room every night of the week. All about the arrest of Channel Three's own Kendall Warner, cool anchorman at eleven, serial killer at midnight. All about how Weather Bird put Warner at the crime scenes night after night when we thought he was forecasting warmer. The ratings sizzled—even the next counties were tuning in to Three.

    And what became of Weather Bird? Well, Weather Bird made the networks—big time. Weather Bird got guest spots on late-night talk shows, and gave advice to tabloid crime shows. Yes, Weather Bird made it big. I'm still the news girl at a backwater TV station. The news girl who never got a raise.

    So, in the end, Ken was right. The parrot was a mistake —— for lots of people. Because, you must remember, I own Weather Bird. And as soon as the check comes in from his latest Letterman stint, Weather Bird and I will own Channel Three.

    And you may call me Ma'am.