Chapter 2 #2
The studio lights brighten, and suddenly everything feels very real and very permanent.
“Thirty seconds!”
I take a deep breath. This is fine. This is for the animals. This is for a good cause. This is—
“Valerie want a pecker!” Horatio announces loudly from his cage.
Several crew members dissolve into barely suppressed laughter. Grant’s professional smile gains a slightly manic edge. Wyatt squeezes my hand so hard I’m pretty sure he’s trying to prevent me from spontaneously combusting.
“And we’re live in five… four… three…”
The counting stops verbally, but I watch the stage manager’s fingers tick down the final two seconds. Then he points at Grant.
“Good morning, America!” Grant’s voice is warm honey, all traces of bird-induced stress vanished. “Welcome back to our special Helping Paws segment, where we celebrate the animals who capture our hearts and the people who dedicate their lives to rescue and rehabilitation.”
The camera swings to include us in the frame, and I paste on what I hope is a pleasant smile rather than a grimace of existential terror.
“Today we have very special guests—a couple who became an overnight viral sensation thanks to one very opinionated African Grey parrot.” Grant pauses for effect, his smile widening. “Please welcome Wyatt and Valerie Nolan, and the star of the show himself, Horatio!”
Applause erupts from somewhere—I assume they have a studio audience, though in my panic I haven’t looked for them. The camera zooms in slightly, and I’m suddenly, painfully aware that millions of people are probably watching this.
“Thank you for having us,” Wyatt says smoothly. He’s so much better at this than I am.
“We’re thrilled to be here,” I add, my voice only slightly strangled.
“Now, for those who haven’t seen it—and honestly, where have you been?—let’s roll the clip that started it all.”
A monitor near the set lights up with the now-infamous footage of Horatio’s greatest hits.
There he is, perched on the podium at Governor Perry Nolan’s rally, screaming “Fuck, ass, shit!” into a hot microphone.
There’s Wyatt chasing him across the stage with Petunia in pursuit.
There’s me, horrified and helpless, watching my life implode in real time.
And there, at the end, is Horatio’s triumphant finale: “Happily ever after, motherfuckers!”
The studio audience is dying laughing. Grant is grinning. And I am wondering if it’s too late to fake my own death and start a new life in witness protection.
“That video has over two hundred million views,” Grant says when the clip ends. “Two. Hundred. Million. That’s more than some Super Bowl commercials. Wyatt, Valerie—what was going through your minds in that moment?”
Wyatt laughs. “Honestly? I was thinking, ‘I really need to catch that bird before he completely destroys my father’s political career.’”
“And you, Valerie?”
I clear my throat. “I was thinking I should never have bought that bird from a teenager at a pet store who brought Jesus into the sales pitch.”
Grant laughs, the audience laughs, and even Wyatt is grinning. “Well, that teenager has inadvertently made you two very famous. But I understand that you’re using that fame for good. Tell us about Horatio’s Instagram.”
This I can talk about. This is safe territory.
“My son Theo actually started the account,” I explain.
“Just posting funny videos of Horatio being… himself. But as it grew, we realized we had an opportunity to raise money for animal rescues. Every sponsored post, every piece of merchandise—all the proceeds go directly to shelters and rehabilitation programs.”
“And the numbers are impressive,” Grant says, glancing at notes off-camera. “Over half a million dollars raised in the last year alone.”
Wyatt nods. “We work with organizations nationwide. The nonprofit I run—Second Chances Animal Rescue—has been able to expand significantly because of the funding. We’ve helped rehabilitate over three hundred dogs this year, including Petunia here.
” He reaches down to scratch behind her ears, and the camera follows his movement.
“Petunia was rescued from a fighting ring, is that right?”
“She was.” Wyatt’s voice softens. “She came to us scared and traumatized. But with patience and love, she’s become the sweetest, most loyal companion you could ask for.”
The camera zooms in on Petunia, who chooses this moment to roll onto her back for belly rubs, her tongue lolling out in pure bliss.
“Awww,” the audience collectively sighs.
“Now,” Grant says, leaning forward with that gleam in his eye that means he’s about to ask the question I’ve been dreading, “I have to ask about your story, because it’s part of what made that viral moment so compelling. You two have quite an age difference, don’t you?”
And there it is.
I feel my face heating up, my shoulders tensing. Wyatt’s hand tightens on mine.
“We do,” Wyatt says calmly. “Fourteen years.”
“And that’s been…how has that been? Navigating a relationship with that dynamic?”
I open my mouth, not sure what’s going to come out, when Horatio decides to contribute to the conversation.
“Young dick!” he screams from his cage.
The studio goes completely silent for about half a second. Then the audience erupts into laughter. Grant’s eyes go wide, then he’s laughing too, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Well!” Grant manages through his laughter. “I think Horatio just answered that question for us!”
I want to die. I want the earth to open up and swallow me whole. But then I look at Wyatt, and he’s grinning—actually grinning—like this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened.
“For the record,” I hear myself saying, my voice somehow steady, “that’s not how I would have phrased it.”
More laughter. Grant wipes his eyes. “I think we need to meet this bird properly. Can we—do you want to bring him out?”
Wyatt stands and opens Horatio’s cage. The bird hops onto his finger, then immediately transfers to the perch between our chairs. He surveys the studio with the air of a tiny emperor reviewing his domain.
“Hello, Horatio,” Grant says, leaning forward slightly.
Horatio tilts his head, considering Grant with one beady eye. Then, in a perfect imitation of my voice—so perfect it’s eerie—he says, “You’re very handsome.”
I want to clarify that I never said that. I have never said that about Grant Holloway. But the audience doesn’t know that, and they’re eating it up.
Grant laughs, clearly charmed despite the chaos. “Well, thank you, Horatio. You’re quite dashing yourself.”
“Fuck yes!” Horatio responds enthusiastically.
I bury my face in my hands. This is it. This is how I die. Of mortification, live on national television.
But Grant just keeps smiling, keeps engaging, like profane parrots are a regular feature of his morning show. “Horatio, can you do any other impressions?”
Horatio dances on his perch, clearly loving the attention. Then, in Wyatt’s voice—again, disturbingly accurate—he says, “I love you, Valerie.”
The audience collectively “awwws.” I feel tears prick at my eyes, but I’m smiling too, because despite everything, despite the chaos and the profanity and the absolute absurdity of this moment, that bird is right.
“Well, that’s just beautiful,” Grant says, his voice warm. “And I think it’s clear that beneath all the colorful language, Horatio is a bird who’s very loved and very much part of your family.”
“He is,” Wyatt confirms. “Even when he’s a menace.”
“Murder!” Horatio adds helpfully.
Grant glances at his notes. “Now, before we wrap up, I want to make sure our viewers know how they can support the work you’re doing. Where can people find Horatio online?”
“He’s on Instagram @HoratioTheGrey,” I say. “All the links to donate are in his bio. Every purchase, every sponsored post—it all goes directly to animal rescue organizations.”
“And if people want to learn more about your rescue, Wyatt?”
“,” Wyatt says. “We’re always looking for volunteers, foster families, and donations. Every little bit helps us save more animals like Petunia.”
Grant nods, looking genuinely moved. “This has been such a joy. Thank you both for being here, for sharing Horatio with us, and for the incredible work you’re doing. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a big round of applause to Wyatt and Valerie Nolan, and the one and only Horatio!”
The applause is thunderous. The cameras are pulling back. And Horatio, sensing his moment in the spotlight is ending, delivers his final line.
“Happily ever after, motherfuckers!”
The audience loses it. Grant is laughing so hard he can barely transition to commercial. And Wyatt pulls me into a hug, whispering in my ear, “You were perfect.”
“We’re going to be a meme forever,” I whisper back.
“Best kind of forever,” he says, and kisses my temple.
As they disconnect our mics and Janet approaches with a gleam in her eye that suggests she already has ideas for a follow-up segment, I look down at Horatio on his perch.
“You’re a nightmare,” I tell him.
He tilts his head, blinking at me with what I swear is amusement. “Horatio want a cracker.”
“You’re getting two crackers,” Wyatt says, reaching over to scratch the bird’s head. “You earned them.”
And maybe, just maybe, this whole disaster will actually accomplish what we set out to do. Maybe somewhere, someone is watching and deciding to donate to a rescue. Maybe a dog like Petunia is going to get a second chance because of a profane parrot and his two ridiculous humans.
Maybe chaos really can be beautiful.
“Mrs. Nolan?” Janet appears at my elbow. “Grant was wondering if you’d be interested in coming back for our holiday special in December. We’re featuring unusual pet traditions, and we think Horatio would be—”
“No,” I say immediately.
Wyatt squeezes my hand. “What my wife means is, let us think about it.”
Janet’s smile doesn’t waver. “Of course. We’ll be in touch.”
As she walks away, I turn to Wyatt. “We’re not doing this again.”
“Probably not.”
“Definitely not.”
“We’ll see.” He grins, and that dimple appears. “Come on. Let’s get our menagerie back to the hotel. I promised Horatio room service, and I’m pretty sure Petunia deserves a steak.”
We gather our things—bird, dog, dignity (what’s left of it)—and make our way back through the studio.
People stop us for photos, for autographs, to tell us how much they loved the segment.
And despite my mortification, despite my certainty that we’ve just made complete fools of ourselves, I can’t help but notice that several people mention donating to the rescue.
Maybe it was worth it after all.
By the time we make it back to the greenroom, my phone is already blowing up. Texts from Sadie, from my sons, from Darcy, from people I haven’t heard from in years. All variations on the same theme:
OMG WE SAW YOU ON TV.
Sadie’s is the most succinct:
YOU ABSOLUTE LEGEND.
Theo sends a screenshot of Horatio’s Instagram follower count, which has apparently jumped by fifty thousand in the last hour.
And Darcy sends a simple:
PERRY IS PRETENDING TO BE ANNOYED BUT HE’S SECRETLY PLEASED. HIS APPROVAL RATINGS WILL GO UP AGAIN. WELL DONE.
I show Wyatt the last message. “Your mother thinks we helped your father’s campaign.”
“Of course we did. Chaos is our brand.” He’s packing Horatio back into his travel cage, speaking to the bird in soothing tones. “You were a very good boy today. Yes, you were. Even when you said ‘young dick’ on national television.”
“Please don’t encourage him.”
“Too late. He’s already planning his Emmy acceptance speech.” Wyatt straightens, Horatio’s cage in hand. “Ready to face the New York streets as newly minted media darlings?”
“Not even a little bit.”
“Perfect. Me either.” He offers his free hand. “But we’ll do it anyway. Together.”
I take his hand, lacing our fingers together, and follow him toward whatever fresh disaster awaits us next.
Behind us, from his cage, Horatio delivers one final commentary on the morning’s events.
“Fuck yes!”
Yeah. That about sums it up.