In grade school, we moved to Covina, across the street from a huge strawberry field. It was a smaller home, but nicer in almost every way. There was a nice young couple with a little girl living next door on one side and a family with a boy about my age on the other. A memory from this home was the day the little girl began screaming because she was being “attacked” by a wild parrot. I came to the rescue and was intent on capturing the perpetrator. It must have been someone’s pet as it seemed to be trying to get closer and interact with us. When it got down close enough to grab, I snagged it, holding it with both hands as it planted its beak repeatedly into my flesh like a can opener. With blood dripping down to my elbows, I ran back home screaming. Mom met me at the door and reached out to try to take the bird. The bird grabbed her by the tip of the finger and just about bit it off. I let go and the bird flew into the living room, terrified and exhausted. Later, after we had all had some time to recuperate, we talked him down with peanuts and put him into a nice enclosure my dad built. He became a fun, family pet and never spilled any more of our blood.