When you called my parents' house telephone, the loon would answer. And by loon, I really mean loon. Like the bird. The bird from Canada, to be specific. You see, while vacationing in Canada a few years back, my parents took a tour and learned all about loons--when they mate, where they go in each season, that sort of thing.

As he often does about random things, my dad became obsessed with the strange duck-looking birds. He was especially entranced by their haunting call, and he began buying various loon-themed souvenirs--a wood carving of two loons cuddling with each other, a few picture books for the coffee table, even a small stuffed loon that, when squeezed in the belly, emitted an authentic, ethereal loon call. "Aaahhhhhhoooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhh!"

This particular souvenir was his favorite. He carried it around the house with him all the time as he shuffled from one room to another. After a while, somehow he got the idea that he would answer the phone with the loon call. He would pick up the phone, push the soft pluch creature into the receiver, and press the belly so that instead of the boring, everyday "hello," callers would be greeted by the loon's eerie cry.

Most people hung up the first few times they called, much to my father's delight.

Eventually, people who know my parents well would stay on the line long enough to hear my father's voice offering a faint "hello" after the loon cry subsided. Then they would typically ask for my mother, since she had more friends than he did.

This little ritual annoyed my mother quite a bit, as she missed some important calls as a result, or had to explain yet again my quirky father to her friends. But as with anything that even remotely pissed my mother off, Dad continued to answer the phone this way again and again.

When my father fell ill with incurable liver cancer, I flew to my hometown to see him. Being in my childhood home was surreal, and I often wandered the old rooms teary-eyed, looking at all the familiar yet alien decorations my parents still had up on the old faded walls.

One particularly late night, I spottd the loon on my parents' dresser. I fingered its soft belly, thinking of the thousands of times my father had played its ghostly song. My mother came in her room and saw me holding it, and said quietly, "I didn't have the heart to bring it to him in the hospital. He asked for it, but I just..." she trailed off.

"Why?" I asked.

"Press it. Go on."

I pushed in the soft fur, feeling for the trigger button deep inside the belly. Out of the loon came a low, gurgling sound--like a dying animal gasping for air, for life. It petered out mid-wail, exhausted. Its battery was dying.

"I just don't think he needs to hear that now, " my mother continued softly.

"No, no," I agreed, and a desperate, sympathetic giggle erupted from my lips. I couldn't help it. And my mother joined in and we shared our rueful joke, really not all that funny but somehow a release that we clung to, unable to let go.