A few years ago my ex-wife and I raised a baby bluejay who had been kicked out of the nest because his beak was deformed. We had him for two years, and he was like a member of the family. Jay sang like a canary, and loved singing along with the stereo. He could also mimic a lot of sounds, including things like the TV remote or the microwave oven.

We also had a alarm system, with a controller on the wall in the living room. For some reason, Jay never mimicked the sounds of the controller, though it was in the same room with him. I think it was because whenever we were using it, we were either leaving or coming home, so he was thinking more about that than the sounds.

Jay died suddenly and tragically, when he ate some dried pasta that caught in his gullet. We were very upset. About two weeks later, we were both awakened in the middle of the night by what sounded just like the controller on our burglar alarm. We were alarmed ourselves, because it sounded for all the world that someone had disarmed it. Naturally, I went to investigate, but found everything normal. The alarm was still enabled.

We went back to bed, but as I thought about it the next morning, I realized two things; First, the cadence of the sounds was quite familiar ... four quick beeps in pairs, da-da, da-da, followed after a short pause by beep, beep. Our controller required four digits to disarm, two to arm. Also, the code had repeated numbers (I'll give a different one, of course), something like 8989 to disarm, 45 to set.

The second thing I recalled was that, while the sound _SEEMED_ like the sound of our controller, it was somehow different ... different loudness or timbre.

Then I got to thinking about Jay. Every morning, he'd get to sit there in his cage (he was allowed free when we were home, but in a large cage while alone), and watch us go through the ritual of setting the alarm and going out the door. Then he got to see the process undone when we returned. Surely the controller was an important part of his life.

About the six beeps instead of two or four, I remembered that, being a forgetful sort, I often have to return to the house to get my dark glasses, or hanky, or something else I meant to take with me. On those occasions, I'd come back in the house. Since the alarm had a 60-second delay, I'd typically punch in the disarm code, da-da, da-da, and then immediately re-arm it again, beep, beep. Then I'd grab what I needed and split.

That's when I realized what was subtly different about the sound. It wasn't the sound of an alarm controller, it was the sound of a bird mimiking the controller. It was Jay, I'm sure.

The way I figure it, though he never made that sound in life, he'd come to know it intimately, and associate it with coming and going. I firmly believe he came back to sort of say, "Hi, I came to say hello, but now I have to go again."