When I teach music in people's homes, house pets like Tiki the gerbil and her relatives with hairless tails and long, flesh-colored fingers --the kind that look like they could play piano-- make me want to scream. Literally. But that's not the case when it comes to creatures with feathers who are granted flight privileges in their homes. No, no; they make me run and duck and flail my arms a lot. This I discovered one night when Claude, my student's African gray parrot, waddled into the room where I was teaching.

Claude was an avian with a Rhodes Scholar vocabulary and an array of circus tricks that included saying "Meow" when the family cat walked by and "Woof, woof" when it saw the two dogs. Further, I was told that his greeting every morning to the first person who walked by his cage was, "Claude want OUT!"

He gave me a challenging look that made my breathing speed up as he strutted past my chair. But when he fluttered to the couch, just inches from my shoulder, I summoned every ounce of false bravado I had and drew myself to a standing position. I pointed at him, gave him a solemn stare, and commanded, in my best No Nonsense Teacher Voice, "STAY!"

With a look of furious indignation, he aimed his ample beak at my gaping eyeballs and turned himself into a feathered missile.

Had my student not been doubled over with laughter, I just know she would have been more help. But instead, my cavalry came in the form of the matriarch of the house.

Hearing the cacophony of my screams and frantic footfalls, in counterpoint to Claude's flapping wings and hoarse war cries, she sensed trouble, dashed in, and summoned my attacker to her shoulder with a piercing whistle from her pursed lips.

Claude no longer had flight privileges on Piano Lesson Night.
Lesson: Being bossy isn't always an effective way to deal with subordinates, especially those outside one's immediate jurisdiction.

NEXT: Unexpected Artistry by the pet dog.