Whiskers, Wings, and Tales

Santa, Chickens, and Peace on Earth

2011-12-25T15:07:00.006-06:00

A Merry Christmas to all! Ours started at 4:30 and was over by 4:45, and I am lucky it even lasted that long; that’s life with a six year old. Weeks of shopping, hunting for deals and just the right toys, hiding purchases, gift wrapping, planning, and finally, talking myself out of the remote control Lightening McQueen because I really wanted to play with it (his eyes move and he says over 35 different phrases!); it was all over in an instant. I am sure I will live to regret the purchase of the video spy watch and its ability to record both sound and picture, with night vision, no less, but it was all my relatively non materialistic child asked for, and I was rewarded with a reverent “It’s what I wanted...how did Santa know?” spoken barely above a whisper as he gazed in wonder at the box. We’ve all had that moment in childhood where we received that special gift that we hoped for beyond hope, which of course has been immortalized forever by Raphie and “A Christmas Story”. My son has maybe a couple of years left to believe in Santa, but I don’t think any of us who celebrate Christmas ever really get over that feeling of magic, of hope and joy that Santa brings when you are of the age that you believe, unquestioningly, in the story of Santa.

This year I found a different kind of joy, as I put forth a holiday wish for anyone who felt they could donate to my nonprofit parrot rescue do so, and I was touched by the generous donations we received. Raising money is the never ending goal of a non profit and we are not even a year old. But the dedication and support I have seen in the past year has truly overwhelmed me. And I have found that it often is the people who already give a lot, either in time or money, that keep on giving. Figuring out how to keep our shelter going, with the never ending need requests for surrenders, is what has occupied me most of this year, and why other pastimes, such as blogging, have quietly faded into the background of my life. I realize that infrequent, and then nonexistent postings, is pretty much the death knell of a blog. But in my current sleep deprived state it seems like a perfect time to start it up again. I am not sure how often I will write new posts; I would like to think at least once a week. I certainly don’t have a shortage of ideas, only time. But like anything else in life if I want to write badly enough I’ll find the time.

Keeping an online blog is an amazing way to reach people. Never has it been more clear to me how our world has shrunk than when, on a whim, I opened a shop on Etsy. For those of you who don’t know, Etsy.com is a site for artists, crafters, and anyone who likes handmade or unique things. I get so little time to paint anymore that I have not been able to build up enough inventory to do an art fair, something I truly miss. In a short span of time began selling things in my Etsy shop. What amazes me is the few things I have sold have been to people who live all over the United States. I even sold two things to someone in England. Forget computers, I am old enough to have gone through high school without a calculator, so this is truly mind boggling to me. Someone can actually be in England and type in “Koi Mosaics” and within seconds my art, created in White Bear Lake, MN, is on his screen, and now, presumably in his house. With a few of the sales there has been an exchange of emails, a small thread of connecting, either over the art or over parrots, my main subject matter. My Etsy shop is certainly not something that is going to make me rich unless I suddenly get to devote a lot more time to my art. And even then I would hesitate to use the words ‘rich’ and artist’ in the same sentence. But I am having fun and it has truly shown me the power of the internet; the chance that we all have to make a little splash by putting forth what we believe in and working hard.

With every news story regarding animal abuse I always pray it will be the last such story, as in recently with what came to light about a Midwestern egg producer. I prayed after that story broke that there will be no more chickens, not now, not ever, suffering in horrible conditions just for a cheaply priced egg. For people do care, people do listen and are appropriately horrified by the facts. I know this for certain because since the story aired about a month ago my husband and I have been unable to count on getting our organic free range chicken eggs. The grocery store is full of boxes of white factory produced eggs but the higher priced organic eggs are nowhere to be seen. Now whether or not people are purchasing the organic eggs from fear of disease or revulsion of the images of cruelty I don’t know. But the fact is a change was made; in the world of animal rights and humanely raising food there is a tiny inch forward. Does it mean chickens will no longer suffer to lay eggs? No, probably not. There are no doubt numerous other factory farms equally as horrific, run by uncaring people only concerned with profit.
As I look forward to 2012, I hope it is just one of many steps forward. People often just don’t think about where their food comes from, but once you know, it is hard to forget about it. Yet in a strange sort of way, that is what selling on Etsy has done for me: reminded me that the world is indeed very small, and if Santa can make it around the world in one night, well, then so can a story. There will be a time, and I hope within my lifetime, that we can say Peace on Earth and really mean it.

Summertime...

2011-07-22T16:50:00.000-05:00

I feel I must update this blog, even if it is only to say that I haven't had time to work on it. There never is a shortage of stories, and I have several new good ones.Time is always the issue. In addition to the work in coordinating a number of new surrenders to our rescue, I have been busy updating the other websites and adding new links for the non profit. One site I am particularly excited about is http://givemn.razoo.com/story/Parrots Here I have set up a page with a couple of fundraising options for the birds. I am hoping that those of you who check in to this blog every now and then will also join that site as a fan! November 16th is give to the max day with the possibility of receiving matching donations. I also added fan pages on Face book for both the store and the rescue.

But admittedly it hasn't been all about work. The winter was so long and our summer is so short I have been trying to get outside and enjoy the summer as much as possible, which includes a lot of time spent around the outdoor pool at the Y or Lifetime. I only feel the slightest twinge of guilt as I swim my laps, knowing swimming outside will be a distant memory in less than two months. If you visit my other sites, you know we have taken in a number of new birds: Macy and Simon, Bing, Louie, and a little cockatiel that will probably be the subject of my next entry. Today three more cockatiels will be arriving, and within the next month I am expecting another Quaker and additional cockatiels from the same home as Macy, Simon, and Linda. We are working on a plan to create a new flight for our small birds that will be more functional, brighter and larger.

Happy Ending (Guaranteed)

2011-06-17T15:52:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago my son and I went to see the movie Rio. I knew that despite the bad guys and the narrow escapes, obstacles, and near death incidences we were guaranteed a happy ending. For my son, it was truly a happy ending, as his knowledge of bird smuggling was confined to the movie screen. For me it wasn’t quite so carefree, since I knew that however well the movie turned out the reality of smuggling was quite different. Still, it was a good movie and even I got caught up in the plot and knew that no matter what, the ending was going to be happy; that the Blue Macaws (Hyacinth Macaws) would be reunited in the end. I also hugely appreciated the fact that the villainous parrot in the movie was an Umbrella Cockatoo.

The past couple of months have not been easy ones, with the losses of several of our birds. It doesn’t really matter where I am; day and night I am generally worried about something related to the birds and the rescue. There are uncertainties and problems to be resolved, and at times a lot of stress. So every once in awhile it is fun to think back to a time in my life when things were easier and know in advance that the ending will be a happy one, guaranteed. In fact, the following incident with Georgia, the cat I wrote about last year, sticks out as one of my best memories. (see blog posts June 20th and June 27th 2010 for more about Georgia)
This happened at a time when I was struggling with the decision over whether or not to let Georgia outside. I was hesitant to do so for the obvious reasons; we lived on a busy street and I didn’t want anything to happen to her, I did not want to worry about the neighboring wildlife, nor about her being picked up by animal control or taken by someone else. But she became more and more relentless, meowing and scratching at the door, and I finally relented. And that is how Birdie, an orphaned wild bird, came into my life.

The day before Birdie arrived there was a heavy spring rainstorm, and I am assuming that is how Georgia found the bird. I had never seen Georgia climb a tree, although I have had other cats that would sit in a tree for hours. Georgia’s favorite pastime was to hide in the tall grass and watch the world around her. When I came home my husband told me Georgia had brought in a baby bird. Apparently she strolled into the apartment, dropped the bird at his feet, then sat down and looked at him. Imitaz didn’t know what to do so he set it outside on a window ledge until I got home. I walked outside, feeling overwhelmed with guilt. My cat had just taken the life of a baby bird. However, when I saw the bird it was quite unbelievably and improbably very alive…and promptly opened his beak the minute I picked him up. Even though Georgia hadn’t harmed it in the least, the bird was so young he was almost completely featherless. I thought it a miracle that he hadn’t died from exposure. I knew I had to first get the bird warm and then feed him as soon as possible. I took the bird inside and put him in a box lined with soft cloths surrounded by jars of hot water that I changed as soon as they cooled down. I didn’t really expect this little guy to live, but I was going to do all that I could. When I was only 15 years old I spent a summer volunteering in a vet clinic. I assisted in surgery, developed x-rays, helped rehab wildlife, and did a lot of other jobs usually designated for vet techs. (This was over 30 years ago and laws were less stringent than now, or perhaps this particular vet chose not to observe them). It was a great learning experience, and one of the things I learned was how to care for orphaned wildlife, so I had a pretty good idea how to care for this bird.

The best readily available food to feed very young baby birds is canned dog food mixed with hardboiled egg that you shove down their throat with a pair of tweezers. Baby birds don’t really have a swallowing mechanism, so you have to shove it down far enough so they don’t choke. At first it is hard not to feel timid, thinking you may hurt the bird. But if you have ever watched a mother bird feed her chick it is anything but gentle. To give the bird water, I used an eye dropper and squeezed water into its mouth. Baby birds are ravenously hungry, and have to be fed around the clock. I fed the bird until it fell asleep and then wait until it started chirping again. It is easy to overfeed a young bird and I had to constantly remind myself that the mother bird would probably be feeding several birds and only small amounts of food, so that is what I did. Soon he was old enough to sleep through the night, but would wake me up by about 4:30. Baby birds are very aggressive eaters, and of course fight with their siblings for food. Nature can also be heartless and parents will instinctively only feed the most aggressive and largest chick if food is scarce. But this guy had no competition and soon learned I was the source of food. When he saw me he opened his beak so wide it hid his tiny head, and he bounced around screechingand bobbing until I fed him.

It didn’t take long for the cats to figure out there was something very interesting behind the shut door and they took turns standing guard. Georgia was unusually smart for a cat and would actually attempt to open doors by standing on her hind feet and trying to turn the knob. I have never had a cat since that would do that, and I can only imagine how disgruntled she was to have brought in a bird and never see it again. Birdie, as we so originally named him, thrived. Soon he was too big for the box and I moved him into a bird cage. As he grew stronger I knew if I wanted to release him and have him survive I needed to teach him to fly. Several times a day I let him perch on my finger and I moved my arm up and down as he flapped his wings vigorously. Soon he graduated to being thrown up in the air a few feet, and I also let him wander around the room as much as possible. It became evident very quickly that it was time to let him go. When he was in the cage he was very agitated, and flung himself around so much I was afraid he was going to hurt himself.

The day came when I knew if I kept him any longer I would be hurting, not helping him. I let him fly one more time with me, then put him back in the cage and opened the bedroom door. I was immediately assaulted by a sea of legs, furry bodies and twitching whiskers and tails. My cats started exploring every inch of the room while Imtiaz and I took Birdie out the front door. We lived across from a soccer field and decided that would be a good place to let him go, as I expected him to hop around a bit before flying over to a nearby tree. I took the top of the cage and with one great flap he was up and out of the cage and within seconds disappeared from sight. I waited for him to circle around and wave farewell with his wing, like they always do in the movies, but he was gone. It is difficult to describe how it felt to see a bird we had raised from so young an age fly away with such grace and speed and I have always felt a great affection for Georgia for bringing him home and giving me this experience. It was many years later that I actually became more involved with birds, and since then I have fed dozens of baby birds, but I have always thought of this time as the moment where it all began. To this day I can see that little bird zooming across the field and over the trees, joyous and free.

Memorial Day

2011-05-29T08:18:00.002-05:00

I want to thank all of you who have expressed your sympathy over our recent losses, both in person and here. I know from speaking to many of you that you have also suffered the loss of beloved pets over the years. Memorial Day is a good time to honor all those who have meant something to you in life, as well as paying respect to the thousands and thousands of men and women who have lost their lives to keep this country safe in so many wars. Being the owner of a small business means I rarely get a holiday off, but I am not complaining. I am grateful to be living in a country where I can safely pursue my passions of the heart. And as the child of a career military man, I grew up on air bases rather than in the suburbs. I have always had a deep respect for what it means to serve in the military. Visiting a military cemetery and viewing row after row of identical white headstones is truly sobering. I always try, on Memorial Day weekend, to pause on that for a minute and mentally thank those who serve this country. I, of course, also try to honor my personal losses, even if it is while cleaning cages!

I am working on my next blog entry, which at long last is the conclusion to my story about Georgia. For those of you who care to reread parts 1 and 2 the posts are from last June 20th and 27th (where DOES the time go??) All I will say at this point is it is a happy ending, guaranteed!

Clarabelle

2011-05-17T18:37:00.002-05:00

Clarabelle

I write my rough drafts in my head, when I am cleaning, or working, and don’t have time to write, and this was going to be a different entry. It was going to be a story of strength, survival against all odds, of a tiny bird’s will to live. But instead it will be a tribute to a small soul that barely got to experience life.

Spring is generally a time of renewal, of joy, as we Minnesotans recover from winter and embrace the sun and new life around us. There are the geese and ducks that return, the perennials popping out of the ground, the trees starting to bud. This has been a Spring slow to arrive. My perennials are way behind schedule, and I have yet to put in any annuals. It has also been a couple of weeks of sadness, with the loss of Magic. Pete is doing better; he is coping and moving on as all living things must do. I wish her death was the only recent loss we have suffered. Sadly, we recently loss Bill, our store canary, apparently from natural causes. The day before his death he was running cheerfully around as he always does. He died that night in his sleep. I returned home from work and learned that the neighbor’s dog killed the female duck that had been nesting in our yard for at least ten years. Her mate sits on a nearby roof top gently calling, calling for his mate, unable to give up hope. A week later he is still there. My eyes are drawn to the roof by an unconscious pull; I know I will feel a stab of sorrow when I see him and yet I feel I must acknowledge his loss.

Clarabelle's legs were essentially backward

So this has not been the best Spring. Instead of focusing on life and renewal it is more about death and loss. And then Clarabelle came in to my life, a three week old cockatiel bred by some inexperienced home breeder who failed to provide the parents with the adequate nutrition so this little bird was born with the worst case of splayed legs I had ever seen. The legs were wrapped completely around, facing backward. She could not perch at all, but had to rest uncomfortably on her chest. She was barely eating and her keel bone was protruding. But we took her in, hoping to make a difference. My initial thought was to simply feed her and keep her comfortable. I didn’t think she would live through the night. I did not plan to take her in to our vet, thinking there was little that could be done. The next day, though, I changed my mind. She was eating pretty well for me, and I wanted Dr. Baillie’s to help me tape her legs and correct the deformity. Over the phone he agreed, not knowing how severe it was. At the clinic he asked me if I could hold her, and I said sure. He examined her legs and then stepped back, leaning against the exam table. I knew he was thinking, and I waited. He said, “I’ll have to do surgery to correct this.” No, I thought. She’ll never survive. When I voiced this thought Dr. Baillie said “She’ll never survive without it. The legs are so twisted she’ll never be able to get off her chest.” He said she has a 50% chance of making it through the surgery; without it, she has no chance.

After surgery

She made it through surgery. I picked her up that afternoon, and already saw a different bird. Her eyes were brighter, she was alert. I can only imagine what kind of pain she had been in. The kneecap of one leg had been completely backward. Dr. Baillie felt the surgery would give her the use of the less severely twisted leg, and birds can survive with one good leg, at least in captivity. She ate the way a baby bird is supposed to eat, with greedy gulps, grabbing at the syringe and flinging the food in her desire to eat as much as possible. She was even responding to the bird sounds around her with an occasional chirp. I was hopeful. I figured if she could make it through surgery, she would make it. By Sunday afternoon, though, I noticed she was sleeping more and more, rousing only to eat and then falling immediately back asleep. I dismissed my worry. She had been through so much.

Sunday night I fed her for what was to be the last time. Again she ate greedily and fell immediately asleep. I am an early riser, and I got up at dawn and checked on her. She was still sleeping, although her posture was a bit unnatural. But I shook the stab of fear away. I came down less than a half an hour later to discover she was barely breathing. I knew her chances had not been good, but I still couldn’t quite accept that she was near death. I picked her up and there was the tiniest flutter of life. I did what I always do when you are helpless to do anything else. I prayed with all my might. I held her in my hands and prayed for life. Miracles do happen, and I have witnessed miraculous recoveries before. There was the slightest movement and I fed her a bit of food. She swallowed it, but there was no more movement. Still, she wasn’t quite dead and I did not give up hope.

An hour or so later I had to acknowledge that she was gone. When you are involved with rescue you develop a protective shell that keeps you from completely crumbling when faced with death and cases of abuse and neglect. You feel, but you don’t fall apart. You can’t. There are other birds to take care of, there is business and bills to tend to, cages to clean, events to plan. But it never gets any easier. You just learn to keep going. Still, this was a hard death to accept. It must have been something I did. I didn’t feed her enough, or I fed her too much, or she wasn’t warm enough. I called Dr. Baillie to see is he could shed any light on her death.

He dismissed my self recriminations, which I knew myself were probably not accurate. I am experienced, caring, and careful. I knew I had done everything I could. But when you are looking for an answer it is easy to blame yourself. He told me her health was probably so compromised by the lack of early nutrition she just couldn’t fight anymore.

He’s probably right; and I do know she was given every chance we could give her. It would be easy to dwell in the negative and wonder why her life was taken. But I guess I would rather see it as a lesson of hope. As the saying goes, where there is life, there is hope. This time hope was not enough, but the brief time she was with me I was able to focus on life rather than death. It eased the pain of the recent losses to focus on giving her life. No, hope wasn’t enough this time. But maybe next time it will be, for hope springs eternal….

Clarabelle

April 17th, 2011 - May 16th, 2011

A Tale of Two Tiels

2011-05-06T16:42:00.000-05:00

Early in 2005, I received a call from a woman looking to place their cockatiel. Although I had been involved with unwanted birds and other animals since 1990 it was always as a volunteer with the animals. I seldom had direct contact with the people surrendering the animals. Now, as the one in charge of the process I found myself unprepared and surprised at the reasons for surrender. This little bird was a pet for her children, who soon lost interest, and had therefore lived out her usefulness as a pet. Her fate was further compounded by the fact that she had untreated Giardiasis (parasitic infection of the lining of the intestine by Giardia, a protozoan) and was constantly picking her back bloody from the horrible itching. The woman did not tell me she had Giardia; in fact, she would have had no way of knowing as it never occurred to her to have her pet seen by a veterinarian. She did tell me she had a feather picking problem and they were frustrated with the situation. The frustration did not extend to spending any money on her though.

When I saw the little Lutino I was shocked. She had a cheery and friendly disposition but was in horrible physical shape. I can best describe her back by saying it looked like raw hamburger meat. Her entire back, from underneath her wing to her abdomen was bloody and raw. I stared at the woman, shocked. She had certainly been pleasant enough on the phone, and she appeared to be a nice woman, wasn’t rude or otherwise obnoxious to me. She didn’t seem stupid or uncaring. And yet it never occurred to her to take this bird, which was clearly suffering and miserable, to an avian veterinarian. Her only effort to treat the bird was the purchase of a feather picking spray and when I read the ingredients I cringed. The main ingredient was isopropyl alcohol. She had been liberally spraying this on the bird’s raw back, causing even more pain. She was unwilling to give me any money for taking her in, which of course was not surprising, since she hadn’t been willing to spend anything on her care up to this point. I knew it was going to be costly surrender, but there was no hesitation on my part to take the bird and get her some vet care.

I immediately took her in to our veterinarian, Dr. Baillie at Cedar Pet Clinic. I was not hopeful, but he felt he could treat the Giardia. In addition to the medication, he performed acupuncture treatments around her wound. I brought her in every week for several months for the treatments, which he generously donated to me. She also received immune system booster shots. Slowly her wound healed, and she seemed to get some relief from the terrible itching.

Treating Giardia, though, can be very tough on a bird’s system and Magic wasn’t healthy to begin with. She became gravely ill with liver disease. Her liver enlarged to the point that she limped, because it was pressing on her leg nerve. I sadly thought that despite our best efforts, this sweet little bird was going to die.

But she didn’t. Despite being near death, she rallied, grew stronger, and eventually made a full recovery. I kept her at my house for a few more months though, and continued to have the wound on her back treated. The itching had ceased but due to the large area affected and the fact that it was underneath the wing it was next to impossible to keep the wound from breaking open, despite multiple attempts at bandaging to immobilize the wing and the injections. Finally I felt she was strong enough to come to the store, and eventually her wound did heal completely. We switched her over to our fresh food diet of brown rice and mixed vegetables and she continued to thrive and gain weight. There were no further signs of the liver disease.

It was perhaps a month or so later I received a call from someone looking to place a cockatiel. She had bought the bird as a pet for her father, but it wasn’t working out. He was in an assisted living place and other residents were annoyed by the bird. At barely two years old, Pete was younger than most of the birds surrendered to the store. He was very sweet and human bonded, and he talked a little. I knew he would be a quick adoption once we cleared him of any health issues. I’ll never forget the afternoon I brought him to the store after his test results came back. I had Magic back by my desk area, and another cage set up nearby for Pete. He hopped out of the carrier, took one look at Magic, said “I love you” and flew over to her. And that was it. From that moment on he would not leave her side. The two became inseparable, and somewhat unadoptable. I was reluctant to adopt Magic out because of her somewhat fragile health and Pete was so protective of her that human interaction was more difficult, and frankly, unnecessary. He was only interested in Magic. It has always been our policy not to split up bonded pairs when they come in as a pair. This situation was more unique, with the bonding happening with us. Five minutes of observation showed anyone interested in adoption that separating them would be cruel. Magic’s health was also a concern for most, and I also thought she was better off with us so that we could catch any relapses very early. And so they became store birds, and have been very happy for the past five years.

Grief is never easy, and I am one of those people that believe animals grieve. I have seen it too many times not to believe it. Most people are aware that elephants in the wild have graveyards for dead members of their herd. Apes in the wild have been observed carrying around a dead baby for days. Around here many of us have no doubt seen a goose or duck sitting by the side of the road, after losing their mate to a car. There are countless examples of animals exhibiting grief, loss, bereavement.

Pete has lost Magic. Yesterday I made the painful decision to have her euthanized. The previous day she suffered a prolapsed uterus. She had on occasion laid eggs but it had never been a concern, as it was sporadic and there were never any complications. But it only takes one time. Sometimes a prolapsed uterus can be treated, but hers was too severe and with her health already somewhat fragile, she never would have survived the surgery. My heart ached for Pete. He was frantic with concern and would not leave her side. When birds are euthanized the death is painless but much slower than with dogs or cats; it takes a minute or two. Pete preened her face as her life faded, and gently nudged her neck. That was about as much as I could take, but however hard it was for me my heart ached more for Pete. When she was gone I placed her gently in the carrier, and Pete immediately followed her in, and sat protectively by her side. I took them back to the shelter and set the carrier on the floor and left Pete to come to terms with his loss. When I returned four hours later he was still by her side. I went in the small bird area and knelt down, planning to take the carrier and bury Magic. Pete was preening her tail feathers. I decided to give him a little more time with her.

It has been a few days now. Pete is adjusting. When he sees me he begins frantically calling, recognizing that I was the one that took her away. In fact, that is how I knew something had happened initially. I was in the front of the shelter, in the large bird area, when he began calling loudly and wouldn’t stop. When I went back to investigate that is how I discovered something had happened to Magic. The first day was hard; he was clearly at a loss. He seems more accepting now, and isn’t calling for her as frequently. I buried her near a beautiful grouping of daffodils in my back yard. I haven’t been able to get out yet this year and do any gardening; it has simply been too cold and rainy. All my gardens are a mess, but amidst the leaves and debris of the gardens are these beautiful daffodils. It seemed like a fitting resting place, and year after year will be a reminder of the little cockatiel with such a strong will to live.

$50,000

2011-01-07T08:28:00.000-06:00

The holidays flew by with lightening speed; a month or more of planning and then Christmas is over. I am seeing promos for the next American Idol season which means Spring is just around the corner! As the weeks progress from ‘Hollywood Week’ down to the final top ten I know we are getting closer and closer to being outside enjoying our fabulous Spring weather, those elusive few weeks between snow and mosquitoes. American Idol is much less fun without the deliciously dysfunctional ramblings of Paula Abdul and so like last year I probably won’t be watching much this year and will have to find another mindless escape when I need a break. I am not much of a TV viewer anyway, but do love the occasional train wreck. When I remember to tune in, currently that would be the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. I can’t help it. There is something so appalling and yet mesmerizing watching someone plan and throw a $50,000 birthday party for a four year old. A four year old that was so overwhelmed she spent the party hiding. A four year old that would have been happy with a cheese pizza, a cake, and a puppy. She received a diamond necklace from her mother,(what every four year desires) and a puppy from her father which shortly thereafter was rehomed as it was purchased against the wishes of the tanned silicone bloated Barbie masquerading as a parent. Of course, the official reason was allergies.

$50,000 would change my life; it would provide financial security for the rescue and allow me to move forward with the dream of building a parrot sanctuary: a safe haven for unwanted and neglected birds who through no fault of their own have had to endure all sorts of trauma because someone desired a pet. Already in this new year I was faced with a very difficult surrender situation; it is not something I am yet ready to write about, but it did confirm for me that my choice to do what I can to help unwanted pet birds is truly the right path for my life. It is a financial struggle to keep going, and often times a bit overwhelming. But the need is so real, and seems to be getting bigger all the time as traditional shelters face closing down from lack of donations and an over abundance of unwanted animals. I have met more than one person who has adopted an animal from a ‘high kill’ shelter down South. It is the latest “in thing”; and allows the owner to tell a glowing tale of rescuing a cat or a dog from certain death. Whenever I run into someone who has adopted one of these animals, they always make a point of this. “She’s a Katrina dog”, they’ll say, or “He’s from a shelter with a 95% kill rate.” And of course I am happy that these animals were saved. But the whole thing has sort of Indiana Jones element to it, as most of the time the animals are flown here by pilots with their own planes and the whole thing seems fraught with adventure and drama, with the exchange taking place in a public place such as a parking lot. The dog is whisked off to his new home and the rescuers are off to save another life.

This new trend in the world of animal rescue is not a bad thing in and of itself; afterall, an animal is being saved. But when I am told by someone that this is where they got their animal I am always left wondering if they realize that for every animal flown here from down South and saved, that is one animal here that does not find its way out of a shelter. The consequences of this are grim, with a once financially solid local shelter being forced to close its doors for lack of funding, and the Humane Society being forced to reduce the time animals are kept before euthanizing them. I forget the exact amount of time but it is less than a month for both dogs and cats. Also, with more and more people surrendering animals, they are forced for the first time to adopt policies other large cities such as San Francisco have had in place for awhile: a talk before a surrender is finalized. No longer can you just walk in and turn over the animal. A shelter staff member first conducts an interview and tries to determine the reasons the animal is being surrendered and if they can provide support and help the individual keep the animal. It is a good policy; sometimes people are frustrated by behavior issues or overwhelmed with financial matters and just want to lighten their load. I have faced that myself with people surrendering their birds to me. It may be difficult to let their bird go, but when they know I will be providing all the necessary things to keep their parrot happy and healthy as well as do my best to find a new home, it becomes easier to walk away from the commitment. I myself have had to slow down the rate of surrenders by sometimes telling people they must work toward solving the behavior issues rather than simply giving up their pet. I am much more inclined to help the person who is facing a personal crisis or intense financial problems rather than someone who is simply frustrated that their once docile baby bird is now screaming too much or biting. Given enough space and resources, I would help everyone, but I simply can’t. Oh, what I could do with $50,000.

This is off the current topic, but more than one person has pointed out to me that I never finished my story about Georgia, the first cat I owned (see the posts from June 20th and 27th). I will eventually finish the story of her life, but as much as I enjoy updating my blog the reality of my life is it usually gets put on the back burner as I deal with the day to day demands on my time. I am going to attempt a return to weekly updates, no promises, but hopefully will be able to resume more regular updates. Happy New Year!

Happy Holidays!

2010-12-07T18:58:00.002-06:00

Tilly under the tree

It is hard for me to believe it has been almost two months since I last updated this blog. I can scarcely believe summer is a distant memory. My garden is buried under a blanket of snow. I brought in as many of my annuals and tropical plants as I could back in October and I know it isn't as far away as it seems before I will be moving them back out. The last storm of the summer caused quite a bit of damage in our backyard, and underneath the snow is the rest of the large tree branch we did not finish cutting up and hauling away. As it will have killed the grass, it is no doubt where my next garden will be placed.

But right now my mind is turned to more wintry things and to Christmas. It is a hectic time but also a time to enjoy the season, whatever that means for you. No one knows how to relax better than a cat, so no matter what else this month includes....last minute shopping in over crowded malls, non stop Christmas music, traveling on packed planes or over snowy roads to visit family remember to take a tip from Tilly and include some time to just enjoy the season!

Summer's End

2010-09-14T18:39:00.000-05:00

“Hey, Mama…Where do you keep dogs when you are shopping?” Zach asked me the other day.
Wow, I thought, impressed with my own parenting. He’s really getting this whole animal thing and concern for their welfare. Before I could answer, though, he shouts out gleefully, “In a barking lot!”

It is with great reluctance that I must acknowledge the end of summer. Labor Day has come and gone, school has started, and there is a distinct autumn feel to the air, even with the sun shining. This year my son started Kindergarten. I was halfway through an episode of the Fresh Beat Band and wondering how were they going to put that car together without instructions when I realized with a start that I could change the channel, or better yet, turn the TV off. I actually didn’t need to sit and grit my teeth while they sang about working together. I was free from the bonds of the preschool holy trinity (PBS, Nickelodeon, and Disney).

Last Wednesday we took Zach to the Minnesota Zoo after the morning Kindergarten orientation session. Zoos are difficult for me, even ones as relatively nice as the Minnesota Zoo. However, with the habitat for so many animals disappearing throughout the world and the number of animals currently facing extinction zoos may be the only place to see many wild animals in the near future, or be their one chance of avoiding extinction with the breeding programs many zoos have established to repopulate wildlife. Zach spotted a moose (a Red River Hog), a skunk (a black and white monkey called a Colobus Monkey) and a bear (a Tapir)

“Maybe we should come out here more often,” I whispered to my husband after Zach excitedly told us to take a look at the pink geese (Flamingos). He can tell the difference between a Congo and a Timneh African Grey, or a male and female Eclectus, and even discuss the proper care and feeding of parrots with good authority, but it seems he would definitely benefit from seeing other wildlife and learning about their natural habitat.

Deciding where to draw the line is one of the many challenges of being a parent. Zoos can be a fantastic place of learning and yet it is difficult for me to see these animals in captivity. As someone who thinks a great deal about the rights of animals in this world, or more specifically, the ethical way to treat animals, it is something I want my son to be conscious of. And yet I do not wish to burden him with adult issues; he’ll find out soon enough about the amount of cruelty there is unfortunately present in the world. As far as what he personally will choose to do about it will of course be up to him. For now taking him to the zoo and letting him see the animals up close does seem like the correct way to build empathy and caring for wild animals. I can’t help but wonder what the animals themselves are thinking when hoards of people are pressing against the glass to watch them play, or sleep, or walk in their enclosures. Yet I know with no contact at all to these animals we, as humans, will never feel the need to protect them. It is even more important that our children learn this.

He knows one of our cats was banished to the garage after the owners tired of him throwing up in the house. They seldom remembered to give him food and water and eventually brought him to the vet to be euthanized. After running some tests the vet determined his emaciated state was not due to any health issue but was because he was starving. He asked that they sign the cat over to the clinic so he could find a new home for him, which turned out to be ours. Zach was about a year and a half then, and Pedro has become his favorite cat. He enjoys chasing Tilly and Sasha, something I don’t encourage, but I have to admit it is sort of funny to watch my cats scrambling to get a toehold on our hardwood floors while they flee the room. My Mother’s Day gift from him last May was a promise that he wouldn’t chase the cats, which lasted about a day. I always tell him to stop and I would intervene if he was truly harassing them, but it amounts to little more than a gleeful stomp in their direction to get the action started. But with Pedro he’s different. He gently pets him and gives him hugs. He tells me Pedro is old and delicate and we have to be careful with him. He checks his food and water dish and makes sure they are full. I asked him once why he is different with Pedro.

“Because his other family wasn’t nice to him,” he said. And then he added, “You have to be nice to animals.”

“Then why do you chase Sasha and Tilly?” I asked

“Because, Mama, it’s fun!”

I feel I have laid the groundwork, but he will have to make his own decisions regarding how he will view animals, or whether or not to become a vegetarian. It is something his generation is going to have to give more thought to, with the numbers of animals currently facing extinction and the health risks associated with factory farming. The recent egg recall has brought to light even more facts regarding how so many animals used for food are living, and it is appalling. While I realize many people are struggling to put food on the table at all right now and are only concerned with the price of an egg, nor the conditions for the chicken, it is an issue that has to be addressed. We have to do better than we are.

There have been many adventures over the summer, relatively tame ones by most people’s standards, but fun nonetheless. Zach and I tried to go somewhere new each week and took advantage of the library’s free museum passes. One week we went to Lake Harriet and happened to find a spot on the beach near where a turtle had laid some eggs. Zach appointed himself guardian of the eggs and stopped playing in the water anytime someone came too near the eggs. “Don’t step there”, he warned everyone. Soon a little crowd gathered, peering into the hole while Zach talked authoritatively about sea turtles and how they come up out of the ocean to lay their eggs in the sand. He has a rather grand way of talking, with lots of hand gestures and big words that he misuses or simply makes up on the spot. I am not sure of the source of his information; we had never talked about sea turtles. Probably Diego, Dora’s animal rescuer cousin and one of his favorite Nickelodeon characters.

“But this is a lake,” one woman told my son. “These aren’t sea turtle eggs. These are from a freshwater turtle.”

Never one to back down, Zach looked at her and said firmly, “They are sea turtle eggs from the sea right there.” He gestures toward Lake Harriet and I make a mental note to add geography lessons to our summer schedule. “And you have to leave them alone until they hatch. You have to take care of other animals.”

Well, I thought, he gets points for compassion, and we’ll keeping working on the rest.

On Vacation!

2010-07-25T14:50:00.000-05:00

It should be fairly obvious by now, but I am taking July and August off from blogging. The summer is too short and there is too much to do outside! Have a great summer everyone

Bringing Georgia Home

2010-06-27T15:27:00.001-05:00

And so there I was, grinning and waving, thoroughly enchanted by this little animal. She stared at me in that unblinking, haughty way cats have and I knew she had to become part of my life. I glanced sideways at Ruth, who was smoking and also staring at me in the unblinking, haughty way she had.

“Would you let me adopt her?” I asked tentatively, wishing I had not left a pile of dirty laundry by my door the week I had moved out. The Laundromat was six blocks away, and I had decided to wait until I was in my new apartment, and use the machines in the basement, thus saving me one more trip in the cold. But I knew her final image of me was that of me lugging an overflowing basket of dirty clothes down to my car, here and there dropping a sock. Still, she did know how much I loved animals.

She surprised me by saying yes right away.

“Her name is Velvet,” she added.

“Hmmmm…,” I said, pretending to consider it. I had already decided to name her Georgia. But now I had another dilemma. I had moved in with my boyfriend, and I wasn’t sure what her attitude toward that would be. It was certainly common enough, this being the eighties, but this was a conservative town that had voted down having stores open on Sunday, because apparently if you wanted to shop on Sunday it meant you didn’t believe in God and you didn’t value family. At least, that is what I read on a number of buttons people were sporting. Ruth already considered me morally bankrupt because of my untidiness. Now she would probably think of me as a tart, also.

“The thing is…my, um, boyfriend told me once he might be allergic to cats. Could I bring her home and just see how it goes?”

Georgia slanted her yellow eyes at me. Ruth slanted her green eyes at me, as a wisp of disapproving smoke escaped her lips and drifted in my direction. I waved the air, coughed gently, and smiled what I hoped was an engaging smile of innocence. Perhaps she would think he was just over a lot.

“Is this that foreigner that was always hanging around here?”

“Well, yes…he’s originally from Pakistan. But he has been an American citizen for years now.” In Ruth’s eyes the only true Americans were white and born here.

“And you are living with him now,” it was a statement, not a question.

Geez, I thought…my own parents weren’t even as disapproving. But just as when I was being reprimanded for untidiness, I seemed to have forgotten that none of this was her business.

“I can give you a week,” she said.

“That’s great!” I said enthusiastically. I leaned toward Georgia and scooped her up under her warm armpits. “I’m just going to take her over to Stacey’s and get to know her a bit,” I said.

Across the hall at Stacey’s we discussed how best to introduce the cat to Imtiaz, thus beginning a twenty year history of mild deceit and manipulation involving pet subterfuge and intrigue. I knew I wasn’t playing fair by not telling him first and making it a joint decision. “But if I asked, you would have said no,” was to become my standard argument of defense over the years, as each new animal was brought home. I sat and stroked Georgia’s back. Close up, she was not as healthy as she first appeared. Her coat, which had looked full from a distance, was thin and very sparse. In some places the skin was showing through. Her ears were frostbitten and filthy; I was later to find out she had a severe case of ear mites.

“Well,” said Stacey, reasonably, “If you are planning on just bringing her home there is no way to break the news gently. I guess you’ll just have to hope he doesn’t get really mad and overreact.”

Georgia was just one of many animals I was to bring home and then convince him we had to keep. I was fairly sure he wouldn’t overreact, as he was by nature a calm person. I was also counting on the fact that he loved animals and would not object to her if he did not have an allergic reaction.

I checked my watch. “He won’t be home from work for several hours. Guess I better get her there and buy some litter box and food.” I said goodbye to Stacey and promised to keep her posted.

In the apartment, I set Georgia down in the living room. She walked around meowing softly and pausing every few seconds. When Imtiaz came home she bolted upstairs before he could see her. In his hand was the familiar white takeout carton. He worked in a Chinese restaurant and often brought home a dish for me. The familiar smell of my favorite dish wafted over.

“Hi!” I said a bit too enthusiastically.

He looked at me, and then glanced toward the kitchen where the edge of the food dish was just barely visible.

“You got a cat,” he stated, his accent a bit heavier. Imtiaz had immigrated to the United States about fifteen years before I met him. Often the only indication I ever had that he was upset or angry was his accent became stronger.

“Well, yes I did….remember we talked about getting one.”

“I said after we were married and had a house.”

“Yes, I know, but really we have the room now….” And I began the subtle art of pet negotiation, a skill I was to develop and hone to perfection over the years. I found it always worked well to start with the promise that the animal would leave if it didn’t “work out.” In Georgia’s case I promised she would go back to Ruth if he had any sort of allergic reaction to her. Of course it is pretty hard to have a reaction to an animal hiding in a closet. That’s where she spent the next three days, upstairs, in the back of a closet. At night I would hear her padding softly downstairs for food. I left the litter box upstairs, and the disappearing food and the use of the box were the only indications there was a cat around. This was the routine for a couple of weeks; we caught rare glimpses of her downstairs, but mostly she stayed away. Having spent most of her young life no doubt in fear of humans she was not willing to trust again right away. Then one day as I was lying in bed reading she jumped up and sat next to me, purring softly. She didn’t stay long, but that was the beginning of our friendship. She visited only at night, sniffing around my face as if she was checking to see if I was asleep. Tentative at first, she gradually relaxed enough to stay most of the night. I adapted to this new routine by falling asleep with my head hanging off the bed because Georgia preferred to sleep stretched out lengthwise on the pillow. It never occurred to me not to let her do this. Eventually I would need to see a chiropractor because of the unnatural sleep position and the strain it put on my neck and upper back. It wasn’t long before Georgia realized she had the upper hand in our relationship. She started biting my hair and cheek when I was fast asleep, something I didn’t much appreciate. Being startled awake in such a way, with visions of rats running across my bed and attacking me, (not that we had rats in our apartment) before I woke up enough to realize it was Georgia, was leaving me sleep deprived and exhausted. My students sensed my tiredness and began challenging me with new vigor and enthusiasm. After several weeks, I had had enough and consulted with Stacey.

"Try squirting her with a plant mister when she bites,” Stacey suggested.

“That sounds mean,” I objected.

“It’s not mean! It won’t hurt her, just startle her, and she’ll soon associate getting squirted with water with the behavior and stop doing it.”

That sounded reasonable, and so the next night I put my new disciplinary plan into action. Initially I hesitated too long and would miss. Once I got Imtiaz right in the face, somehow mistaking a 170 pound man for a ten pound cat, but eventually I was to perfect a technique which involved me barely waking or moving in order to hit my mark. It is true that the nighttime biting did cease once she got the message I meant business, but she soon found new outlets for tormenting me.

Yes, I know, all of us animal people spend far too much time convincing ourselves and each other of all the human-like attributes of our pets. We have all experienced the eye rolling and the smirks non-animal people direct our way as we recount yet another unbelievable story about our pets. That being said, I am absolutely convinced Georgia spent the time I was teaching casing the apartment and plotting various retaliations for ending her nighttime ambushes.

As she became more comfortable with us she began requesting to go outside. I was hestiant to allow her outside for all the obvious reasons; we lived on a busy street and I didn't want something to happen to her, and I wanted to protect the neighborhood wildlife. Eventually I relented, and that is how "Birdie" an orphaned baby bird, came into my life.

To be continued....

Georgia: The Cat That Started It All

2010-06-20T07:23:00.001-05:00

“How did you get involved in this?” I am often asked when someone looks around the store and the rescue birds. It actually started with a cat named Georgia. I was just out of college and in my second year as an art teacher. Georgia was the first animal I owned as an adult.

Her head tilting slightly to the right, she narrowed her eyes and stared, sizing me up. Her entire presence suggested arrogance and a certain confidence in her own superiority. She kept her legs tucked neatly beneath her, and every few seconds flicked the tip of her tail as if registering each fault as she discovered them. As I stood before her grinning stupidly she gave me one last disdainful glance and turned away, pointedly ignoring me. She was just a cat, but clearly a very superior cat, and made it quite clear that while she was not entirely dismissing my presence, was not interested in me.

I eagerly moved a few steps so that I was again in her line of vision, and gave a little wave in case my interest in making her acquaintance was not clear. With a look of disdain, she sat up on the back of the chair and turned to face the wall, wrapping her tail around a very compact and elegant little body. She was not a cat for a novice like me; I should have started with a playful kitten or a gregarious, affectionate tom cat, like the cats of my childhood. This little black cat most definitely controlled any situation. If I had known more about the general disposition of cats I would have realized this, but at the time I was ignorant. It would not take long, though, for me to become an expert on feline physiology and the historical significance of cats, or for my wallet to bulge with adorable, out of focus photos of my cats sitting, staring, and napping. Before I owned cats I was a reasonably interesting conversationalist who could talk about a wide variety of subjects without somehow tying in an amusing little anecdote about my cats.

That first meeting fell on a cold day in January. Cold in Fargo, North Dakota, truly means cold, with wind chills in the double digits. People who have grown up around there are proud of their ability to withstand any wind chill, and blizzards that last for two or three days, with snow accumulations of a couple of feet. It has to make you wonder about the general stability of a population, where many will proudly proclaim that winter temperatures there rarely rise above twenty below for three months. I was a transplant from a slightly warmer climate, but over the years had come to accept the bitter cold. I just spent about half the year running from building to building, and it always provided a topic for banal conversation….”Cold enough for you today?” And even I would admit there is a certain amount of pleasure to be had from looking out the window and seeing three feet of snow being swirled around by fifty mile an hour winds and know you are warm, safe, and inside with an uninterrupted day of competitive scrabble playing ahead of you. I taught in a rural school district thirty miles from Fargo, and blizzards would often shut down school for the day. Kids may look forward to an unexpected day off, but not nearly as much as new and inexperienced teachers did. I will always fondly remember the morning channel four anchorman who would make my day when he announced schools were closed due to snow.

She already had control of our relationship. I was grinning, waving, and making little smacking sounds with my lips, somehow thinking this would prove irresistible to her and she would come running. Instead, she no doubt had decided that not only was I a little too eager to be liked, but I was not terribly bright, either. I was easy prey.

This particular day had been a grueling day at school, and there were no blizzards forecasted for the week. I was driving the thirty miles home feeling overwhelmed and frustrated. It was my second year as an art teacher, working with kids from seventh through twelfth grade. While I was not completely ineffectual, I was having difficulties. Kids can sense terror and uncertainty quicker than animals, and will go after you with a great deal of joyful enthusiasm. There are always one or two kids who are mercilessly teased in school, and next to making their lives completely miserable, making a new teacher break down into hysterical weeping or screaming can be about as much fun.

Generally, I was well-liked. I taught a subject most kids wanted to take, and I spent the majority of my paycheck shopping at the trendiest stores which made me the envy of most of the girls, and therefore popular. I liked kids and enjoyed talking to them, and I loved art which made it easy to teach. However, my inexperience as a disciplinarian meant I seldom got through the day feeling I had actually taught anything, and by seventh hour study hall I was usually shaking with exhaustion and dealing with a pounding headache. Still, my life had progressed from sheer hell as a first year teacher to days, sometimes a whole week, when I actually got through my lesson plans and at least kept my study hall kids in the general boundaries of the study hall area.

As I said, this day had not been a good one. I was attempting some progress in controlling things and had developed an endless and complicated discipline policy with consequences for every minor break in conduct. My grade book was filled with red checks, black checks plusses, minuses, and wistful letters of resignation scribbled on scraps of paper during particularly bad days of monitoring study hall. More experienced teachers pointed out to me that I must spend more time keeping track of infractions of rules than I did teaching, so I stopped going to them for advice and started talking to a friend of mine.

Stacey was getting a masters degree in Counseling and had a degree in Secondary Education, and while she had no real teaching experience had an innate feel for teaching as well as a very large dose of common sense. She was also an outstanding listener and over the years of our friendship I had often turned to her for advice and comfort. Getting close to Fargo, I decided to swing through the downtown area and see her before heading to my own apartment. It wasn’t my first visit since I began teaching. I often stopped in to run new additions to my discipline policy by her. Eventually I had to type it up and tape it to the inside of my grade book so I could remember exactly what these kids were and were not supposed to do inside my classroom.

Somewhere around the middle part of the year I managed to get my students to stop throwing clay or coating the exposed parts of their body with glue to make lovely ‘skin’ to peel off during the day, and I think I was even beginning to teach them a few things. It was exciting, but I often needed Stacey’s logic to scrap planned projects. The plaster face casting was still a rather painful memory. The demonstration would have been flawless had I remembered to provide air holes for the poor seventh grader who had eagerly volunteered. Stacey was also a great source of sympathy when days had gone badly, and although she always provided a listening ear and good advice, I think my frequent visits were zapping any enthusiasm she previously had for the educational field. Since none of my tougher kids were gone from study hall today, I seriously needed to gain some perspective on things. Last week’s flu epidemic, which had knocked out some of the worst offenders, had allowed me to relax some of my rules, and I was paying for it this week. We sat in her apartment to once again discuss why I found it so difficult to just have “No talking in study hall” as a basic rule.

“How about this, “I said. “Only four groups of two kids, well maybe three if they need to work together, can talk at one time, and only for five minutes…I can keep track here…”I trailed off and pointed thoughtfully to a blank column in my grade book.

Stacey sighed, but patiently explained to me again, “It’s study hall. They are supposed to study. You do not have to provide them with talking time.”

“What about the kids who need to study together?”

“They can do that after school; that’s not your problem.” She continued on, laying out a simple proposal of one rule, no talking, and the degrees of consequences. It all seemed easy when she explained it, and I didn’t think that this time my students would find a loophole. They could generally take the most precise statement and come up with a vague but somehow unarguable interpretation that had not occurred to me.

“Yes, I can see how that would work….I can type up a class list and keep track of anyone who breaks the rule, and perhaps color code the checks for each infraction after the initial one.” I looked thoughtfully at her floor to ceiling windows and studied the pattern of frost creeping up inside each window.

“Can’t Ruth do something about that?” I said, nodding toward the beautiful but not particularly energy efficient windows. Ruth was the landlady and lived across the hall from Stacey.

“Well, I haven’t asked her. I don’t want her to see what a mess this place is. You know how she is.”

I certainly did. When I was living in the building, I had the misfortune of selecting the apartment her late husband had personally repaneled. Over the years it had become less of an apartment and more of a shrine to his memory. While I was looking over the tiny efficiency, she ran her hand reverently over the paneling and said, “Buddy did this – and there are to be absolutely no nails placed in it!” As her tenant, Ruth took it as a personal insult that I was a rather casual housekeeper. The previous tenant had been gay, and while Ruth was known to make comments about “those homos”, she did approve of Greg’s fastidious nature, and that he religiously polished the paneling each week with lemon scented Pledge. I, on the other hand, took a lighter approach to my surroundings. At the time I lived there I was a full time college student as well as working nights as a waitress. This did not leave a lot of time for housework. Often, I would be called into her apartment and told, “I went into your apartment today and JUST ABOUT DIED!” What do you do- just walk in a drop everything on the floor?”

Embarrassed, it never occurred to me to ask her just who the hell did she think she was, walking into my apartment without permission. She was about 5’2”, and weighed around 80 pounds, was in her 70’s and smoked Pall Malls by the carton. I was scared of her. When confronted by her indignation I would shift my eyes guiltily around her apartment, where every available surface was covered with the memorabilia of a lifetime, completely dust free. In fact the knickknacks had been in the same position for so long everything seemed glued into place. I would mutter something about working too much and then sidle back into my own apartment next door and pick up a bit.

Now I gazed around Stacey’s apartment at the fine patina of dust, the stacks of dishes, the unmade Murphy bed, and the clothes draped casually over every piece of furniture.

“You’re right; it’s safer to risk pneumonia.” Stacey’s apartment was once occupied by a dear, dear friend of Ruth’s, and while it had not obtained shrine status, Stacey was still expected to uphold the previous occupant’s standard of compulsive neatness.

“Speaking of Ruth, did you know she has a new cat?”

Ruth was president of the local humane society and when animals needed some social contact before being adopted out, or were just too young, she would foster them. Being an animal lover myself, this was one of the few benefits of being her tenant, as I enjoyed seeing a steady stream of cats, kittens, dogs, and the occasional rabbit. My busy student schedule made it impossible for me to have a pet of my own. Besides, all were an improvement over her yapping, annoying, and egotistical poodle, Gidget.

“Really?” “How does Gidget feel about it?” I could not keep the sneer from my voice. I was still a little sensitive about my last visit. Gidget had just returned from the dog groomer and ran up to me, prancing and showing off her ridiculous haircut and ribbons. I laughed loudly, thinking how stupid she looked, and Gidget hid under a chair. Ruth made me apologize to her.

“Gidget-widget doesn’t mind sharing, does she?” As if on cue, Gidget came prancing into the room. Stacey adored her, and the feeling was mutual. She couldn’t stand me, though, and marched smartly around the perimeter of the room, making it obvious that she wanted to avoid any potential contact with me. She wiggled up to Stacey and sat smugly at her feet. Any sensible dog would have been humiliated by the tartan coats and matching red leashes, the silly haircuts and bows, but not Gidget. All the fussing and attention had turned her into the snotty cheerleader type.

“Anyway,” Stacey went on, “They aren’t sure if they are going to adopt her out or not. I guess they found her in a moving company warehouse and she had bad frostbite on her ears. The workers were being mean to her, throwing things at her and so on every time they saw her, until one of them eventually felt sorry for her and took her to the humane society.”

As with any story of animal abuse, I was feeling disgusted. “How’d she get there in the first place?”

“They think she crept inside a moving van and then couldn’t get out. I think what is saving her life now is she is really pretty; solid black fur that is real shiny. Ruth is calling her Velvet.”

“It’s weird how someone like Ruth, who claims to love animals so much seems to feel that only certain ones deserve to live.”

“Oh, I know…remember the calico cat I found? She went straight to the pound.

“I want to see her,” I said suddenly. I had gone too many years without a pet. Even though as a teacher I worked long hours, I felt settled enough to take on this cat. Without even seeing her, I wanted her, felt some sort of connection to her.

“She’s still at Ruth’s, I’m sure,” Stacey got up and Gidget followed, making another wide path around me. I stuck my tongue out at her when she walked by, and headed over to Ruth’s.

To be continued…

Zach's Garden

2010-06-15T17:38:00.000-05:00

The garden is shaped like a heart

Like just about everyone I know, my days are over scheduled. Once I get behind it has an accumulative effect and it takes several days to get caught up. It’s amazing how fast a day will disappear. Last week was just such a week. I decided on Monday that it was finally time to finish replacing the fabric on the dining room chairs. With all the rain predicted for the week it seemed like a good time to get caught up on inside chores. It was an easy enough job, just one I hadn’t completed. I already had the fabric and had done one chair, just to make sure I liked it. That was months ago. I started to unscrew the chair pad from the legs while Zach, my five year old son, stood by idly watching me. He asked a few questions about the staple gun and then wanted to know if he could borrow it to shoot at our cats. When I said no, he wandered away, uninterested in my project. I was able to finish it in record time with no interruptions and was looking forward to a week of getting caught up on other inside jobs. As it turned out, Zach’s apparent nonchalant attitude was hiding an interest in the screwdriver and the endless possibilities for removing screws around the house.

I am not exactly sure when he started on this job. I didn’t actually see him do anything until Wednesday evening. This is my usual time to sit down and write a draft for this blog. I was just going to deposit the last load of clean laundry in the proper places and then sit down to write. I came up the stairs and Zach had the front door open. He was busy working on unscrewing the security bolt. My husband was in the kitchen making dinner, and unaware of Zach’s project.

“What are you doing?” I exclaimed

“I’m just fixing the front door,” he said, and then he added, “Like all the other ones.”

I immediately became nervous. One five year old plus a screwdriver times all the doors in an average house…I set down my laundry basket and looked at the basement door. Sure enough, the screws holding the little plate on the door jam (the part that keeps the door latched) were missing. I turned and looked at the small door of the laundry chute. It was hanging askew with two screws missing.

“Zach where are the screws?” I asked

“In my Thomas train.” Fortunately he had carefully placed all the removed screws in the cargo compartment of his train. I was a little dismayed by the number of tiny screws I saw, but glad that I did not need to make a trip to the hardware store. As it turned out, he not only removed screws from the doors, but also unscrewed the drawer fronts down in his basement play area. I realized this when I yanked one of the drawers open only to have the whole front come off in my hand. And then I noticed all the handles were missing from the cabinets below. And so I spent the evening reattaching things, although I am still discovering loose screws. Yesterday I noticed the upstairs laundry chute door was also hanging slightly crooked, with all the screws loosened.

Spiderman in his garden

     It is fun to post photos of my gardens when they look their best, and I feel it provides a nice break between my more serious entries. I started Zach's garden the summer after he was born. We had a weedy patch in the middle of the yard and I noticed one day when I was in his room that he had a perfect view of it from his bedroom window.  I decided to start planting flowers in the shape of a heart. The first summer I didn't get too far. The ground was sandy and hard and even though the general shape was already that of a heart I still had a lot of digging to do. I made endless trips to Home Depot to buy the blocks to outline the garden; I could only lug home a few at a time. It would have been much easier to have a load delivered but it was a fun morning outing with my 6 month old son, and usually tired him out enough so he would take a nap by mid morning. I planted a few perennials that summer but mostly it became a weed patch again.
My plan for the garden was to plant mostly red flowers but as it turns out his favorite color is yellow, so I have been slowly adding yellows. It took a couple more years for it to start looking more like a garden and less like a scraggly patch in the back yard. Not  everything is in bloom yet, and I still have more annuals to plant to outline the shape of the garden. The garden is a work in progress, like most things in my life.

P.S. Jojo is at the store again this week.

What Would Spiderman Do?

2010-06-06T09:50:00.000-05:00

I received a call last week from one of the vets at Cedar Pet Clinic, whom we use for our rescue birds. Someone had brought in a perfectly healthy cockatiel, about 5, to be euthanized. Earlier this spring they had brought in the bird because he was “no longer nice” He bit and was also screaming and they were looking for advice. In just a few weeks, though, it seemed their attitude changed from one of concern to just getting rid of the bird. The vet was calling to see if I could take the bird in. At the moment it would be difficult but I told her if she had no other options of course I would. She was going to check with a couple of other people she thought might be interested. As I haven’t heard back, I assumed she was able to place the bird. Convenience euthanasia. It is not something Spiderman would approve of.

I know a lot about Spiderman these days, as he is my son’s favorite superhero. Among other things, I am told by Zach that “with great power comes great responsibility.” I couldn’t agree more. While I would say that in the case of an elderly pet or one that is suffering severely, a painless death can be a blessing. It is something people even attempt to seek for a terminally ill relative and sometimes get, usually with dire legal consequences. With people, hardly anyone is comfortable with the notion of ‘assisted suicide’ or otherwise ending the life of a gravely ill person. But with animals, it’s another story. Instead of being a way of painlessly ending a life when the health of the animal dictates that, it becomes a way of disposing of an unwanted pet. I’ll never forget Bourbon, a neighbor’s dog from my childhood. He was a beautiful Golden Lab, about 4 years old, kind and gentle. I often played with him or took him for walks. My neighbors were moving and felt they were unable to take him with them. They decided to have him euthanized instead of rehoming him, because he ‘would miss them too much.’ We begged them to let us keep the dog but they were firm in their decision. As an adult I can barely fathom the kind of self centered arrogance that would go into such a decision. As a child I was just heartbroken to know Bourbon’s fate. I can only hope that the vet did not follow through with the procedure. Many won’t, they will just have the client sign over the animal and then they try to place it themselves.

My cat Pedro came into my life under similar circumstances. He was brought to Cedar Pet Clinic to be euthanized. They were just tired of him. He was extremely emaciated and my vet first wanted to run some blood work before proceeding with the euthanasia. Perhaps the problem was treatable. No, they said. They were not willing to spend anything. The vet had them sign the cat over to the clinic. It turns out that he was perfectly healthy and his low weight was due entirely to neglect. They had kept him locked in the garage because he threw up on occasion and they didn’t want to deal with it. No doubt they forgot to feed him most days. I had just lost my cat Max. He was 19 years old and it was time; I had been treating him for kidney disease for the last three years. Dr.Ulfeng asked me if I would like to take Pedro home. After hesitating briefly, I wasn’t sure I was ready to take in another cat, I said yes.

That was about four years ago. Pedro is still with us, although he is in the beginning stages of kidney failure and does have IBD (irritable bowel disorder) which is why he does throw up on occasion. However, it is easily treatable with a round of prednisone. He is the most loving, gentle, and affectionate cat I’ve had. Having just lost a cat, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go through that again in just a few years. But I am glad I was given the opportunity to have this animal in my life, and even more grateful that the vet who held Pedro’s life in her hands chose not to do the easy, convenient and uncaring action her client was asking for. The owner of the clinic, Dr. Baillie simply refuses to ever euthanize an animal unless it is medically necessary, and of course the vets that work with him follow the same ethics.

Last weekend I saw a customer I hadn’t seen in awhile. She adopted a couple of lovebirds from me, and unfortunately one of them developed unexplained seizures shortly after she adopted them. She has cared for the two of them for several years, but the seizures were getting worse and worse. She said she thought it was time to put him down; maybe this weekend. A little alarm bell went off in my head. “How are you planning on doing this?” I asked, since vet clinics typically aren’t open on the weekends. “My husband is just going to break his neck,” she admitted. I offered to pay for the humane alternative at a vet clinic. “It’s not the money,” she protested. “It’s the convenience of it.”

After she left I sat there, wondering how our values could be so different. I know she loved the birds; and I knew she was taking good care of them. I knew she was a decent person, or I wouldn’t have adopted them to her in the first place. And even when shortly after adopting them one of them developed health issues, she continued to care for them instead of bringing them back to the store. So why not take the necessary steps to see that the bird died more peacefully? To feel it was justifiable to end a bird’s life in a painful and not necessarily instantaneous matter because you didn’t feel like being inconvenienced was just barbaric, and a puzzle to me when she clearly was distraught over losing the bird.

However, by telling her that I simply couldn’t allow that to happen I was able to change the outcome for this bird. I told her once she told me I just couldn’t stand by and pretend I agreed with her decision. She did agree to bring the bird to me when they decided it was time. She called me a few days later to tell me she had taken the bird in and had it euthanized. I am glad she made the decision to end his life as respectfully as she could. I know she was heartbroken over losing him, yet it just didn’t seem wrong to her, at least initially, to end his life in a rather cruel way. And that, in a nutshell, or perhaps eggshell, is why I have dedicated my life to these birds. It doesn’t make a huge difference in the world, but I am able to ease some pain and suffering. This week, at least, I was able to keep a little lovebird from leaving this world by having his neck snapped in half.

Pets or Meat?

2010-05-29T20:52:00.000-05:00

I once saw a movie where a woman, desperate to make ends meet during difficult financial times, was advertising rabbits for sale. ‘Pets or Meat’ the sign read. She raised rabbits, and was equally comfortable selling one as a pet or butchering it and selling it for food. I know someone with a rabbit so huge it could easily feed a family of five. It is the hugest rabbit I have ever seen in my life; it is a special giant breed of rabbit whose name I can’t recall. It is of course a pet and I am certain they have never considered eating it. Even their dogs wouldn’t consider it a possibility. He has hind legs as big as a Kangaroo’s and weighs more than a small child.

The other day I was wandering around Marshall’s and I came across a notepad with a cute drawing of a woebegone puppy. It caught my eye, as any pet related item does. And then I read the caption, which was, “Am I here just for food or for love?” I believe the intended phrase was meant to be “Am I here just to feed or for love?” it was one of those unfortunate grammatical errors made even funnier (to me, anyway) because the product was made in China and therefore a real question. And it also begs the question why do we consider some animals pets and others food? As Americans, we love our pets, and we love to eat meat. Most holidays and other special occasions center around the eating of one kind of meat or another, and of course Thanksgiving just isn’t that without turkey. What makes one animal worthy of being a beloved family pet and another suitable for the dinner table? Well, I have no idea, but thought I would write about becoming a vegetarian.

I've been one most of my life. I remember the moment it first occurred to me that beef was actually a cow and chicken was actually a chicken. I was in eighth grade and had just learned that we were having lamb chops and mint jelly for dinner. "Oh good!" I exclaimed. "That's my favorite!" My older brother looked over at me. "You know those lamb chops once belonged to a happy little lamb frolicking in a field," he said. I stared at him. "No way," I said. I know this sounds ridiculous; of course I knew lamb chops came from an animal. I had just never really thought about it. After all, by the time the meat reached me it was about as far removed from a living thing as it could be. It was just what we were having for dinner. My brother wasn't trying to raise my consciousness; he was just doing what big brothers do; trying to torment me. I would like to say I refused my dinner that night, but I didn't. Lamb chops were my favorite, and we didn't have them all that often. However, I did go to the library, and looked for a book or two on vegetarianism. (I am sure I tattled on my brother and my mom mentioned the word ‘vegetarian’ to me). What I found was Peter Singer's book 'Animal Liberation.' It was the chapter on slaughterhouse practices that convinced me, with horrid certainty, that eating animals was wrong for me. It was probably another year or so, though, before I actually decided I would no longer consume animals.

I am fortunate to have supportive parents, and while my Dad couldn't resist saying "You’re murdering that carrot" or screaming at the dinner table when I bit into a vegetable and then laughing uproariously he mostly left me alone. My Mom actually began cooking two dinners every night: one with meat and then a vegetarian meal for me. Over the years I have met other vegetarians whose parents made them cook all their own food, or even refused to allow them to follow a vegetarian diet so I am very lucky that my parents made it easy for me. In addition to being a good cook my mom loves to bake, and there was always enough variety of good food that it really wasn’t much of a hardship for me to give up eating meat.

Like any kid, though, I loved fast food, and I have long maintained that as a vegetarian the only meat I really miss are the ‘junk’ meats: bologna, hot dogs or brats. I was in high school long before the “healthy” alternatives fast food restaurants are offering now: the peculiar tasting salads of preserved greens or other side dishes. In fact, it was difficult to eat in any restaurant and find vegetarian alternatives. My choices in most restaurants were the salad bar, baked potato, or grilled cheese and I usually had to have them hold the bacon bits on the potato or ham on the sandwich. High school is a time when kids hangout out a lot in fast food restaurants or my friends’ favorite, Perkin’s. It was difficult to be social and eat with everyone else, but like my parents, my friends accepted the change. Being interested in art and philosophy had already made me the designated weirdo among my friends so my new diet was taken in stride.

My freshman year of college proved to be difficult, in terms of living in the dorm and being on the food plan. There were virtually no vegetarian alternatives. Most of the time I ate lettuce salads, fruit, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. If they served mashed potatoes and mixed vegetables with the meat entrée I would skip the meat but add cheese from the salad bar and microwave it to make a casserole of sorts. With enough salt and butter it wasn’t too bad, but a far cry from the vegetarian food my mom had prepared. By the time I was a senior though, things did change. The college was surrounded by small farming towns, and although the student population was largely kids from these neighboring rural areas, there were also a high percentage of foreign students because the business school had an excellent reputation and many foreign students chose this for their major. A group of mostly foreign students, many of whom were vegetarians from birth, successfully campaigned to have not only vegetarian entrees but vegan ones as well. Although I had since moved off campus and was cooking my own food, I worked in the cafeteria all through college and it was nice to see the change. Many of the foreign students had become my close friends because we all worked in the cafeteria together. Since a number of them were vegetarians or at least didn’t eat certain types of meat, it wasn’t until I left college and began working as a teacher that I faced any real hostility for choosing not to eat meat. I am not an activist, never have been. I simply made choices that were right for me, so I was unprepared for the level of anger that was directed at me by my fellow teachers, who were also my friends. I never tried to make a case for vegetarianism; in fact I was reluctant to discuss it at all. At some point someone noticed in the teacher’s lounge that I never ate meat and from that point forward it became an issue for some of them. Vegetarianism was synonymous in their minds with animal rights nutcase. They would look for flaws in my philosophy. “You wear leather shoes,” someone would sneer. “Don’t you think an animal died for that?” or “I suppose you think it is better that deer die from starvation, because that’s what would happen without hunting” or my favorite, “I suppose if you saw a person and a dog drowning you would only save the dog”. I would try to deflect the arguments. I acknowledged that I was not a vegan and did at times wear leather shoes. Cows were not killed for leather; it was a by product and I was ok with that, although I had been a vegan for awhile. I would also tell them that if you are going to eat meat it was more honest to kill it than to buy it packaged, and it was the raising and slaughtering practices I most objected to, not so much the consuming of it. And I told them that assuming it wasn’t one of them, I would save the person first but I would also go back for the dog. And then I would try to change the subject. I came to realize that even though I never made a point of discussing my choices, the fact that I didn’t eat animals made them feel guilty on some level that they did consume them. Over the years I have come to realize that most people are not completely comfortable with the eating of animals. Many times I have heard people say to me,”I don’t even want to know how they are killed. If I did, I would never eat meat again.” I have always found that rationalization a little hard to understand, after all, most of us would not be comfortable ignoring other cases of abuse or neglect.

There is something else I have always found puzzling: Americans love to eat animals, but only certain ones. Eating a cow or a deer is ok, but eating a dog or a cat is not, and we are horrified by other cultures that do. And yet, most of us know by now that the animals we are ok with eating are for the most part raised in horrific conditions and die a painful death. It is easy to research this and read for yourself, so I will spare you the details, but no animal that is slaughtered from a factory farm situation has anything less than an utterly miserable life and painful and terrifying death. How is it that we can lavish love and attention on our pets but be indifferent about the animals on our dinner plates? While I admit that I too, can rationalize my behavior (the previously mentioned leather shoes), once I Iearned how animals were raised and killed I simply could never eat one again.

But is that enough? Dairy cows and chickens can have an equally cruel existence, and it is not of short duration like animals raised for meat. Fryer chickens are packed into windowless sheds and bred to produce the maximum amount of meat in the shortest amount of time, but laying hens are kept in cages so small they can’t even flap their wings, and often have their beak tips sheared off to keep them from pecking at each other, and must endure this for their entire miserable lives. Dairy cows are milked several times a day and often develop chronic udder infections. Of course I choose to eat free range eggs and buy milk for my son from cows that are allowed to graze. I can only hope the conditions are half as idyllic as I imagine. No matter what I choose to do, it never feels like it is enough. I love to eat fruit, but unless it is locally grown and organic, it has its own legacy of cruelty. Much of the produce from other countries is grown with the use of so many pesticides it is impacting the environment and killing wildlife. Periodically I get so bogged down by the consequences of my actions that it becomes overwhelming, and then I toss a can in the garbage instead of recycling it, just because it’s all too much. For anyone living in a modern society and not on a self sufficient farm growing all their own food it is simply impossible not to have some negative impact on other living beings, and it seems once you are aware of this there is no end to it.

Well, if you haven’t given up on this entry yet and are still reading, you might be wondering what my point is. And it’s just this, it is what I usually ended the discussions with by my ridiculers. “I do what I can,” I would say. “I make as many cruelty free choices as I can.” It is what you can do, if you are interested in making changes. It does make a difference where your meat comes from. Buying free range chicken or beef means that animal did have a better life. Going meatless one or two nights a week can have a huge impact. There are simply too many people in this world consuming too much meat to think that all farming would return to the days before factory farming and animals bred for size. I would feel better if I was still a vegan; for a few years I was, before “slipping” and adding eggs and cheese back into my diet. For the most part, though, my meals are vegetable and grain based, and I know I am doing what I can. Of course I could do more; anyone can do more than they do in most situations. But I know for now I am doing what I can.

For many people contemplating a vegetarian diet the thought of what to cook is the most difficult issue. I personally own only a couple of vegetarian cookbooks because I find many vegetarian cookbook authors think being a vegetarian means you have to eat only healthy stuff and they don’t have recipes with white flour or sugar. They don’t believe in frying or sautéing things and everything is steamed or cooked in non stick pans (off limits for bird owners). They use only whole wheat flour and fruit juice for sweeteners or no added fat. Ick. Often the dishes feature weird spices or hard to find ingredients, and labor intensive cooking and that doesn’t interest me either. For the most part I take regular recipes and adapt them to suit my needs. I also watch a lot of cooking channel shows as long as they aren’t focusing on how to prepare a roast or cut up a fryer chicken. One of my favorite cookbook authors is Rachael Ray. Although I find her rather annoying to watch, she does have fantastic recipes that are fast and easy to prepare, and she usually has a vegetable side dish that for me is easily the main dish. Also her meat dishes for the most part are extremely easy to adapt and you can often substitute Portabella mushrooms for the meat. One of my favorite dishes of hers features radicchio, which is a sort of bitter vegetable that looks like a small head of red cabbage, and one I really like. But then I also like Brussel sprouts. If you’ve never tried radicchio try it this way. If you hate it, your birds will probably eat it.

Warm Beans with Thyme

You will need:

1 head of radicchio

1 can of cannellini or other white beans, drained and well rinsed

Fresh thyme leaves, chopped

Garlic

Olive oil

Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper

Pamesan Cheese (optional)

I never measure anything when I cook so just use all seasonings to taste since I don’t feel like looking up the actual recipe. Heat up a pan and add olive oil. Slice the radicchio and add to the pan along with chopped garlic. I add two or three cloves. Sauté until wilted and add then add the thyme. I usually use about three sprigs. Cook a minute or so longer, then add the beans and heat through. Season well with salt and pepper and serve immediately with fresh grated parmesan cheese and extra olive oil, if desired.

Perhaps this will inspire you to try a vegetarian night or two, or adapt your own favorite recipe!

My Pond

2010-05-22T18:21:00.006-05:00

A long shot of the entire area

When I first started this blog a couple of months ago it was my intention to post a weekly entry. That seemed fairly doable, even with working full time at the store and being a mother. I neglected to factor in the endless games of memory, hide-and-seek, and countless knock knock jokes with no real punch line that nonetheless required my participation. There are bedtime stories and the needs of my aging cat Pedro, who requires subcutaneous fluids and a little special attention, and of course a few store birds that are currently at my house. My intentions have further been sidelined by a lengthy illness I am only recently recovering from, and the lure of the beautifully warm days we have lately had. I have to admit that every spare minute has been spent outside working in my gardens and I have left little time to edit the drafts I start at the beginning of each week. After spending the last two weeks outside I would like to share the photos of my little pond, which is more or less finished. The water is always a bit murky because Zach throws anything he can into it when I am not looking. He is definitely getting signed up for T-ball this summer. Throwing is a favorite pastime of his. When I was cleaning out the pond earlier this month I was very happy to discover my cement tortoise, which mysteriously disappeared last year. Although the pond itself isn’t the naturally submerged body of water I envisioned, the sound of the fountain and the relative calmness make it one of my favorite back yard spots.

“Knock Knock”

“Who’s there?”

“Ivan”

“Ivan who?”

“Ivan working on the railroad….”

Sigh. However, despite the interruptions and the promise of beautiful weather all week I will return to weekly updates.

For the most part, the hostas hide the fact that the pond is above the ground

This is a view to the left as you are facing the pond. I made the mosaic table a few years ago

This is a view to the right of the pond. The fish is a mosaic submerged in the water

Another long view of the pond area

The area directly in front of the pond

There are enough areas in our yard to keep me busy for the rest of the summer, including a wildly neglected area along the fence that Zach calls the rainforest. Currently there are no less than five lost balls residing among the overgrown bushes. Chief, an African Grey, and Sammy, a Senegal, love to spend time outside in my outdoor aviary cage, which is adjacent to the pond area. They are two birds surrendered to the store who are currently staying at my house

Spring Fever

2010-05-08T08:17:00.001-05:00

Springtime for parrot owners means, among other things, an increase in hormones which causes unwanted behaviors, including aggression and noise. A normally docile female bird will lunge if you go too near her cage, and you may find yourself on the receiving end of a nasty bite for no apparent reason. And there is the noise level, which increases to a cacophony. At the store we deal with all of it, with the store birds and with customers who become frustrated with unwanted behaviors. It is the time of the year where we receive the most calls for surrenders. ‘Spring fever’ is of course a term we have all become familiar with and applies to just about all living things.

It happens to me every April. The minute the weather is above freezing I start planning my gardens. I’ve got several of them, and like my animals they are fussy and high maintenance. For years I have fed my birds, Tavi and Gilligan, warm food from a spoon twice a day. They can eat on their own but expect the mash or sweet potato (with a little butter and brown sugar, thank you) and get it. The minute my Amazon Hector hears the microwave he starts yelling, not wanting to be left out. He eats the mash as well, but I can just put it on a plate for him. All the other birds in the store get warm cooked food every morning. It is something I started years ago when I volunteered for a parrot rescue and I wanted to give the birds something special. I have all sorts of recipes I’ve developed, including a layered lasagna with apples, spinach, carrots, millet, a yogurt/ricotta cheese layer and of course noodles and pasta sauce. If only my child would eat such things.
My cats get catered to as well. As Max aged he became a very fussy eater and wouldn’t eat without company. For years I sat on the floor with him while he ate. He always expressed his gratitude by purring the whole time he was eating and gratefully rubbing his head against my leg. Once I told someone I would get up in the middle of the night and sit with him. She looked at me incredulously. “Why?” she said. “Because he needs it,” I answered. “For years he has been there for me. And now I want to be there for him.” She told me later that this conversation made it easier to care for her aging dog. When he needed to go outside in the middle of the night she said to me, “I started to get angry at him, but then I said to myself this is what he needs.”

I have to admit it wasn’t the easiest thing to do in the middle of winter, getting up and sitting on the cold kitchen floor while my cat ate. On the other hand, I found motherhood a very easy transition. I barely noticed the change in my schedule. Instead of getting up once a night I got up a couple of more times with my son. Taking care of a baby was less taxing for me than years of catering to needy animals, although I have to admit we were blessed with an easy going and good natured baby. Zach is now five, and unlike my animals wants independence. “I can do it myself,” I constantly hear. “It’s my job,” I’m told, as I am cutting up his food and trying to feed him.

It seems it is in my nature to take care of things. My childhood was filled with the usual denizens of an animal loving kid: hamsters, hermit crabs, turtles, crawfish, toads, frogs, and goldfish. When they eventually died there was of course the elaborate backyard funeral, with neighboring kids for mourners and burial sites marked with stick crosses or stones. I’ve always loved plants as well and when we bought our house years ago began planning gardens immediately. There are two things that stand in my way of having beautiful gardens, though: when I buy plants I tend to get the wilted and sickly ones so I can revive them, and I have trouble weeding and pruning, not because of the work involved, but because it pains me to pull up live plants or cut back a bush. This, of course means I spend a lot of time bringing back a half dead plant and that there is a feeling of neglect when you look at my gardens. The ground is covered with Creeping Charlie, which I happen to find pretty with its little purple flowers, and the Linden bush in the front yard is a sprawling unruly tree with arching branches. It is my cat Pedro’s favorite summer spot to rest.

I’ve spent every spare minute outside during April. I hauled my houseplants outside too early and lost some of them when it dropped near freezing. I do this every year, and then spend the rest of the summer coaxing them back to health. I hover over my Hostas and wonder why they aren’t growing, and accidentally trample on new leaves. I am terrible with bulbs. I plant them and then every few days dig them up to see if they have sprouted yet. I am at the garden shops several times a week, and of course am mostly interested in the non native tropical plants that require the most care. This year I brought my son with me to help pick out plants. As I am hovering over the Bougainvillea and Fuchsia he is flinging six packs of Marigolds, Pansies, and Petunias in the cart. He especially loves yellows and warmer colors while I favor the cooler colors: purples and blues. I start to correct him. “Not those,” I say “Their common.” He doesn’t understand what I mean, and just looks at me and simply says, “They’re beautiful.” It turns out he was right. I have always passed by most annuals in part because they are so ordinary, but also because at the end of the summer they are left to whither and die. Already, though, my gardens have a more vibrant feel to them than when I was the only one choosing plants and will probably be easier to care for without as many tropicals.

My favorite place to sit in our yard is by the little pond area I created. Several years ago I purchased a plastic pond form, intending to submerge it into the ground for a natural little pond area. I knew exactly where I wanted it, and began to enthusiastically dig a hole. In a short amount of time I hit the gas line to our house; fortunately without causing damage. I had to change my design to an above ground pond and have spent hours trying to disguise the black pond shape so that it looks more natural. Although it's not quite what I had in mind every year it looks a bit more natural. I've learned that a good garden takes patience and time. After a day of listening to screaming parrots the pond provides a welcome respite from noise, and my newly planted annuals (placed in pots so I can bring them inside in the fall) a little quiet companionship. Plant a garden, even if it is just a window box on a deck. It will make you happy.

Toy Ideas

2010-05-01T17:13:00.002-05:00

In addition to providing your parrot with interesting places to hang out, you'll want to provide him or her with toys. Parrots love to forage and destroy.

Here are some great and inexpensive toy ideas:

• A roll of toilet paper or a roll of cash register tape (available at any office supply store) make a great destructible toy. Hang from a perch and your bird will have a great time unwinding the roll. My cockatoo likes to weave the paper in and out of the cage bars as well.

• Pinecones can be either hung or placed in a box for foot toys. They can be sterilized by drying in an oven at 225 degrees for 20 minutes. Field corn is also a great toy, as is the decorative corn you can buy in grocery stores. I have found that my birds also love the corn husks sold for Mexican cooking in the specialty food sections of grocery stores.

• To make a nifty foraging toy, drain a coconut, then saw in half with a hacksaw. Remove all the flesh and save as a treat (or eat it while you are working!) Drill a hole through the top and bottom and run a piece of bird safe leather through both halves. Knot the bottom just underneath the coconut and tie another knot near the top half to keep the two halves close together. You now have a nifty hiding treat box for your bird.

• For the birds who are mechanical geniuses, take a wooden board (untreated) and drill a number of holes. Buy stainless steel bolts, nuts, and washers and attach to the board. Use one or two of the holes to attach the board to the side of the cage (these should face outside the cage). The washer will need to be wider than the bars of the cage to hold it steady. The rest of the bolts should face inward, so that your bird can have a grand ol’ time unscrewing everything. This is particularly good for cockatoos and macaws.

• My cockatoos love to play in a cardboard box. This keeps them busy for hours: I find a medium size box and fold the flaps so it stays shut, then place it on top of their cage. First they rip open a corner so they can get into the box, then they jump inside and hollow out the rest of it. It makes a mess but it is easy enough to sweep up.

• Along the same lines as the box is a wicker basket. These can be bought very inexpensively from craft stores. Make sure to buy the natural ones. You can fill the basket with pinecones, raffia, or strips of cloth, or just give them the basket to destroy. All my birds, from my budgies to my cockatoos, love this toy. Give smaller birds smaller baskets.

Whether or not you choose to make or buy toys, it is imperative that you keep your bird busy.Toys are meant to be destroyed, even the big expensive ones you buy! Keep this in mind if you are considering a parrot as a pet. Providing toys is an on going expense, but necessary.

Play Areas for Parrots

2010-04-24T17:11:00.002-05:00

It’s difficult for all of us…balancing the need to spend time with our companion bird and the demands of everyday life. Because of the curious nature and short attention span of many parrots, very few will “stay put” when let out of their cage. Out of frustration, many owners will put their bird back in the cage after very little time out because they find it impossible to watch their bird and cook dinner too. It is fun to watch Hector, my Spectacled Amazon, and Lucy, a Red-sided Eclectus explore the store. They KNOW they are not supposed to be on the toy wall, or climbing up and down the racks of merchandise. Hector giggles to himself as he pulls off price tags, as Lucy methodically shreds any paper that crosses her path. Since we are talking about a bird store, however, the damage is minimal. But the same activity in a home can not only be destructive but downright annoying. A parrot that sits on the back of a dining room chair merrily chipping away at the wood is not going to be met with enthusiasm. I do not feel it is necessarily right, though, to get angry at a bird for destroying something in your home. After all, there is no distinction to them between a toy and your antique armoire.

Nor is it ethical to keep your parrot locked up in a cage or alone in a bird room all the time. These are flock- oriented, companion animals; they need companionship. The key is to balance the needs of your parrot with your own need to get work done. I find if I spend 15 or 20 minutes with my birds first, they are much more inclined to sit contentedly and watch me work after that. Birds need to be away from their cages; they like the stimulation of new learning experiences. While a play top cage is quite nice, parrots will benefit from additional play area as well. Here are some ideas that will help you create your own play area:

     • A ceiling boing is one of the best bird inventions ever created! Relatively inexpensive, the boing is easily hung with a ceiling hook (for the safety of your bird, unless screwing into a wood beam, please use the toggle type hook). From the boing you can hang toys, slinkys, knotted cord, whiffle balls, anything your bird enjoys playing with. Most birds will be hesitant to jump off a boing if they aren’t flighted, and heck, if you make it fun enough, why would they want to? With the number of birds in the store we rely on the boings to provide extra areas for the birds to play. With all the windows at the store all the birds can be out at the same time and enjoy the view. We also hang them above each cage. The boings  can be hung in every room of your house where you want to spend time with your bird.
     • If your bird is content to just be near you, and doesn’t necessarily need to be playing with something, a bar stool works great. It is what we use at home with our Umbrella Cockatoo, Gilligan. He enjoys just hanging out in the kitchen with us while we are cooking, but for safety’s sake, we can’t have him on the countertop or on a shoulder. I don’t know that a stool would work too well for the smaller birds, but for a cockatoo or macaw it is great. If you are handy and like projects, you can adapt any old chair to a play area by screwing on perches and adding toys. It is cheap and portable.
     • Another great portable play area is a wicker basket. This is great for a tabletop or to have near your computer. Wrap the handle with natural jute or all cotton rope, add toys, and food cups with hooks. Your parrot will sit happily for hours, playing with toys or climbing down to get a snack. I particularly love the basket when I have paperwork to do. Just about any bird I put there will sit contentedly next to me while I work, and not climb down to grab pens, chew on paper, etc. Make sure the basket is large enough to not be unstable, with a handle that is wide enough to comfortably allow your bird to perch.

• For smaller birds a wooden clothes drying rack works well. These are great for cockatiels, budgies, and lovebirds. You can jazz it up with your bird’s favorite toys.

• Along the same idea as the boing, you can create other hanging gyms: suspend a basket from a stainless steel chain, or create a swing form a large grapevine wreath. Make sure the wreath has not been treated with anything, and add strips of cloth, toys, beads, etc, for your bird to play with. Natural tree branches also work well: Again, make sure the tree has not been sprayed with pesticides and that the wood is bird safe. Then add a large screw eye or two and hang on stainless steel chain. As with the boing, make sure the ceiling hook can support the weight of the perch.

• There are many commercially available play stands as well as ones you can make yourself from pvc. If you are handy and would enjoy making your own play stand, I would suggest you buy the book Parrot Toys and Play Areas by Carol S. D’Arezzo and Lauren Shannon- Nunn. It is packed with great ideas!

The Hopeless Situation, Part 3

2010-04-17T13:26:00.002-05:00

I bent down and inched forward. She shot out from behind the toilet and ran blindly toward the other side of the small bathroom. I tried to grab her as she went by but fear and desperation turned her into a furry missile and I found myself grabbing at nothing. It seemed I was never going to be able to handle her. I put down her food, changed the litter box and shut the door.

The next few days I made little progress toward being able to handle her. Every day it was the same routine: I went in to feed her and clean the litter box, and then sat down on the floor, hoping she would come over to me. She would at least now eat in my presence, trembling and walking unsteadily over to the dish. I decided to name her Jasmine; I was reading Tom Robbins’ book ‘Jitterbug Perfume’ and the jasmine flower was featured prominently in the book. Even if she was not coming over to me she had at least stopped running in terror every time I opened the door. As usual, I placed the food down and sat on the floor, waiting. She came over but this time did not start eating right away. Instead she tentatively rubbed her head against my leg. I couldn’t believe it, and didn’t dare move, in case I frightened her. She began purring softly. It seemed, just like that, we were suddenly friends. I have no explanation for this. I had not varied my routine, or tried to approach her any differently. It was as if a switch had been turned off and she ceased to be frightened of me.

From that point on we were inseparable. If I was not around she was no where to be found; I was the only person she trusted; in fact, it was nearly three years before Imtiaz could even touch her on his own. She continued to make a slow but steady recovery and I decided it was time to have her spayed. The surgery was uneventful, but after bringing her home it was clear she wasn’t feeling well. I thought perhaps she was just going to take a bit longer to recover, and made her comfortable. The following evening Imtiaz called me at work.

“I think you’d better come home,” he said, “There’s something wrong with Jasmine.”

For the second time in six months I waited for days to see if she would pull through. She had somehow picked up a bacterial infection while being spayed and was having a tough time fighting the infection. I visited every evening and held her until closing time at the clinic, when I was kindly but pointedly told it was time to leave. Once again she pulled through, and seemed fine. She became extremely possessive of me and chased my two other cats out of the room. No one was allowed near me, not even Imtiaz. When we sat together on the couch she wedged herself between us and glared up at him, shedding furiously. It got to be a joke between us; any time he came near me she would push herself between us. I have never before or since had an animal that was so possessive and devoted to me. If I was in bed with a cold she stayed by my side, barely leaving to eat or drink. There was no evidence of her terrible start in life, except for an occasional tremor. She seemed in perfect health, and so I was completely unprepared when I came home from work and discovered her lying in the middle of the living room, her back legs paralyzed.

There seemed to be no visible injury. I had by this time switched to a different vet clinic closer to home and within minutes she was being examined by my vet. She did not find anything unusual with the physical exam, and recommended x-rays of her back and legs and blood work. I readily agreed, and waited nervously for the results.

“This is really puzzling,” she said when she came back in the room. “The blood work is normal, and nothing showed up on the x-rays. It must be something neurological.” She suggested I take her to the University of Minnesota for further testing. It was not something I could afford to do right away, and so I brought her home again. I made her as comfortable as I could and made sure there was food and a litter box nearby. She was able to get around by dragging herself, and able to use the litter box on her own. I saw miniscule improvement from day to day, and did “kitty physical therapy”, playing with her to help her regain her balance and agility. To my delight and my vet’s amazement, she slowly made a full recovery. There was no evidence of the paralysis and I received no medical explanation from my vet. The incident was completely forgotten and I had no reason to believe she would not go on to live a normal life span. Despite everything she had been through and the extreme illnesses she had recovered from, the only physical problem she was prone to was ear infections.

When she was about nine, several years after the paralysis incident, I noticed her ear was red again. I figured she had another one of her chronic ear infections and brought her in.

“Another ear infection,” Kim agreed, and gave me the usual drops. With my frequent visits we had become friends and we chatted about other things, unaware at that at time of the actual severity of Jasmine’s condition.

Looking back, I know in my heart there was nothing I could have done that would have changed the ultimate outcome. I put the drops in her ear, but the redness had not lessened after a week as it always had in the past. She was hiding and sleeping so deeply I could barely rouse her and get her to eat. She became listless and disinterested in her surroundings. Her breathing became labored and the paralysis was returning. I brought her back in. Although Kim couldn’t be sure without extensive testing, she was fairly certain she had a tumor, and it was now growing very quickly. It was possible, she said, that for years she had a small, slow growing tumor in her brain that perhaps at one point shifted, causing the temporary paralysis we had seen a few years ago. For whatever reason, it became extremely aggressive and started to spread rapidly. She couldn’t be sure; it was only a theory, she said, and the only way to know for sure would be to have extensive testing done. Even if I learned it was cancer, I didn’t have the thousands I would have needed to treat her cancer at the U, and it probably wouldn’t have made a difference anyway, for from that point on she declined very quickly. I did what I could, transferring her to the emergency clinic every night so she could sleep in an oxygen tent and be monitored, then moving her back to my regular clinic in the morning. I just couldn’t say goodbye to her, not yet. I needed a few days to come to terms with losing her.

The day she died I was at work pretending to focus on the project in front of me. I received a phone call form Kim. “Is there any way you can come over here?’ She asked. “She’s suffering and there is nothing else we can do to ease it.” When I arrived at the clinic I went right in back. Kim was there, tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry I’m crying,” she said. “Normally it doesn’t really bother me to euthanize an animal because they are usually suffering. But she is such a special cat and she is dying so young.” Despite my own grief I was surprised and touched by Kim’s words. Professionally, her persona was a bit clinical and knowing her personally as I did I discovered she had a rather utilitarian attitude towards animals, even her own pets. Although she was a competent vet it was unusual to see this kind of emotion from her. I went over to Jasmine. It was clear she was struggling with every breath, and I knew it was indeed time to have her euthanized. I always want to be present for this; I want my pet’s last memory to be of me. Despite the pain leading up to the decision it is usually a peaceful ending for the animal. It was not the case this time. I took her out of the little oxygen unit and back to the room set aside for euthanizing animals. Being out of the oxygen tent made it hard for her to breathe; to this day I am haunted by those last few minutes and the pain in her eyes. Even though I knew it was pain and panic from not being able to breathe I could not help but feel I had not been there for her the way she had always been there for me, that she was not ready to die and I wasn’t doing enough for her. She had paid back my initial kindness of saving her life a thousand times over, and I knew I had given her nine years of life she wouldn’t otherwise have had. But at that moment it did not feel like enough.

As with any loss, time heals pain, or at least the rough raw edges of it. The loss of any of my animals has been hard, but Jasmine’s was particularly so. There was just something about her; perhaps it was the way she first came up to me after being so fearful, or her determined possessiveness of me, or just her warm furry presence on a cold Minnesota night. Perhaps it was the amazing will she showed to live, the way she fought back against terrible odds. I suppose it was a combination of all these things that made her so special to me, the one animal whose loss affected me more than any other. Although I lost her very young, I sometimes think about what I would have missed had I never taken responsibility in the first place for her life. It’s a lesson I’ve relearned, to one degree or another, with any situation that at first glance appears hopeless. Throughout my life my work with animals has taught me many things, not the least of which is to never feel a situation is hopeless. There is always something to be gained, regardless of what has been lost. Jasmine taught me that.

The Hopeless Situation, Part 2

2010-04-10T09:46:00.011-05:00

Everyone who has owned a pet has one special one that they’ll always remember. Long before my life was consumed by unwanted birds and the myriad of problems I deal with every week there was a cat in my life named Jasmine. I have never been so close to any animal; and was in fact so close to her I used to sometimes wonder what I was going to do when she finally died from old age. As it turned out, that wasn't going to be the problem. Our connection was perhaps due in part to the extreme way she became my responsibility. For whatever reason, she was my 'heart' animal; the one cat whose loss effects me still.

A number of years ago I was working in a frame shop in Rosedale mall. An acquaintance of mine was doing a summer internship nearby at the University of Minnesota St. Paul campus. She mentioned a stray cat she had seen a number of times with a litter of kittens. The mother cat was barely out of the kitten stage herself, and feral. In fact, she was terrified of humans.

“Do you have any idea how I can catch her?” she asked.

I gave her what advice I could, which didn’t amount to much more than leave out food, and try to befriend her or to use a live trap. I didn’t give the situation much thought after that; people were always asking me animal related questions. A few weeks later, though, she called me in an absolute panic. The kittens had been discovered dead and the mother cat was comatose.

“Do you know of a nearby vet clinic?” she asked frantically.

I did, of course, and we brought the cat in together. She was immediately hospitalized and given the life saving care needed. On the way out of the clinic I brought up the subject of money. Although I had made the appointment and helped her bring the cat in, I wanted to make sure she was going to pay what was sure to be a hefty vet bill if she survived, and that she was planning on keeping the cat.

“I’ll pay the entire bill,” she said, “But I can’t keep a cat where I live. Will you take her?”

I didn’t really think the cat would live through the afternoon, so I said yes without giving it much thought. But she did live. In fact, the little cat went on to make a slow and steady recovery. She spent about a week in the hospital. I went to visit her when I could. She was an emaciated and terrified little bundle in the back of the cage, one leg sticking out straight, fully bandaged with the iv drip. She smelled terrible, a smell full of sickness and filth. When she tried to stand and walk she trembled and fell over, either from weakness or neurological damage. Even as she improved she continued to tremble, which mystified my vet. As she gained strength her fear in humans was more evident. She would not allow me to pet her or get too close to her in the cage. I kept my friend updated on her progress, but she became more disinterested as the week went on and never made an attempt to visit the cat. When it came time to take the cat home, my friend was suddenly quite hard to reach. I left numerous messages, all unreturned. I unhappily explained the situation to my vet. “The plan was she was to pay the bill and I would take the cat home, but now I can’t reach her. I don’t have the money for the bill. Will you let me take her and make payments?”

He hesitated a moment, but then said yes, and we arranged a payment plan. I thanked him for understanding but inside I was fuming. How dare she dump the financial responsibility of this cat on me, a cat she was desperate to save. I was in fact shocked that she seemed able to do so with no qualms. I could have left the cat there and told my vet it wasn’t my responsibility, and it wasn’t. But this would have been extremely unfair to him, considering the amount of time and money he had invested in the cat and not something that I was capable of doing. I chalked it up to “another lesson learned”; get something in writing, even with a friend, when there is a financial promise made.

My more immediate problem, though, was what to do with her. I hadn’t really discussed the situation with Imtiaz, because I didn’t think she was going to live. She was barely breathing when I brought her to the clinic and nothing more than a sack of bones. She had been too sick to test for diseases and so it was essential I kept her away from my other two cats, Max and Taji. At the clinic and still desperately ill she was scared of me but too weak to do much. Now that she was fully awake and feeling better, I discovered she was truly the wildest cat I had even seen. She was not the least bit aggressive, just absolutely terrified of people. On the way home she scrambled around frantically inside the cardboard carrier I borrowed from the clinic. She managed to break out of the box and tore madly around the car. "Oh God," I moaned, "What have I gotten myself into now?" Not only did I have a vet bill I could not afford, I had a hysterically frantic and terrified cat that I was somehow going to have to explain to my husband as well as safely keep in my house. I was angry at myself as well, for taking on a responsibility I didn’t need. Why had I gotten involved, why hadn’t I just told her to take care of the problem herself, or take the cat to the humane society where she would have been euthanized, immediately classified as a hopeless case. I saw it every week during my volunteer shift; feral and pet animals brought in or surrendered. Only the most promising were saved, the rest were euthanized. When resources were limited, it was the harsh reality.

I decided to let her recover in our basement bathroom. It was the best way to keep her away from our other cats and a small enough space to allow me to befriend her, if it was even possible. The first few days were a nightmare. Every time I went in to feed her or clean out the litter box she ran wildly around the small space, frantic to get away from me. Despite her weakened state it was all I could do to keep her from escaping out the door when I walked in. Imtiaz was also very unhappy about having a third cat, and I didn't even know if I would be able to convince him to let her stay. As usual, my love of animals had short circuited common sense and practicality and I found myself in a situation that seemed unsolvable. I had already seen to it that heroic measures had been taken to save her life. Despite the fact that I couldn't go near her, I was already attached. As Imtiaz has long said, I have never met an animal I didn't like. I had no desire to have an extended conflict with my husband over this, but balked at the idea of finding a new home for her. Besides, who was going to want a wild little stray with a myriad of health problems? I leaned against the basement door and sighed, looking down at the little ragamuffin cowering in the corner behind the toilet. I tried once again to befriend her, and leaned down with my hand out. "Please," I pleaded silently, "Come over to me."

The Hopeless Situation, Part 1

2010-04-03T13:43:00.000-05:00

     This past week I have been thinking a lot about commitment, at least in how it relates to having a pet. I have had an increase in calls for surrenders. As a rescue, I don’t feel it is my place to judge the caller. It is also is a waste of time and energy and does little toward resolving the situation. When I first get a call, I try to help the caller with any behavior issues, but this rarely helps. They have already decided to get rid of the bird, and any suggestions I have are met with resistance. “The situation is hopeless,” I’m told. “We’ve tried everything, and just need to find a new home for our bird.”
     As I said, as someone dedicated to placing birds in new homes, judging the person surrendering the bird is useless. But as a person, I can’t help but judge. We all, of course, judge people all the time both consciously and unconsciously. We make decisions about someone based on their external appearance, their perceived wealth and lifestyle, and treat them accordingly. So while I try not to make the caller aware of my feelings; after all, they already feel bad enough about giving up the animal, I can’t help but let the little comments run through my brain. It’s sort of like watching a news cast and simultaneously seeing the running news update at the bottom of the screen. While I am doing my best to be empathic toward the ‘hopeless’ situation, my internal ticker tape is reading …Oh, right, there is just no way to start a new job/move/have a baby and still take care of a pet…messy? Birds are messy? Who knew…Oh No! Surely your bird doesn’t scream. What a shock it must have been to discover parrots are noisy…Well you get the idea. There’s a bit of unsympathetic sarcasm going through my mind. It keeps me sane, sort of.

     People often say to me, “You are so committed towards animals,” and it is meant as a compliment. But I also hear, “You always put the animal first,” and this is meant as a criticism. It is part of the whole animal rights conflict that has been going on for decades, the idea of humanity and how it relates to animals. Although vegetarians have long since been concerned about the quality of life of farm animals (among other issues), non vegetarians are now also beginning to realize there is an enormous difference between a free range chicken and a factory raised, antibiotic/hormone stuffed chicken. I could easily digress here into a whole discussion of vegetarianism, but I’ll save it for another time. I bring it up now only because it relates to my core value regarding animals. I am a vegetarian because for me that is what feels right, but I know many huge animal lovers that are not vegetarians. However, many people are now becoming aware that it does make a difference, certainly in terms of suffering if not also in health, in whether or not you buy factory farmed or free range meat. This core value of humanity (The quality of being humane; the kind feelings, dispositions, and sympathies of humankind; especially, a disposition to relieve persons or animals in distress, and to treat all creatures with kindness and tenderness) is what determines how I live. I simply do not believe animals should suffer physical or emotional pain due to the actions of humans. Whether we are talking about a pet or animal raised for food or how we view “management” of wildlife, I do not believe we should cause the suffering of animals. I must exclude, for now, medical research. While I am fundamentally against it, I really lack the knowledge to know if there are alternatives for all types of medical research involving animals, and I really don’t want to go down that path. In my own life I find it most useful to try to do what I personally can to change something I don’t like and sometimes that means keeping a pretty narrow focus. I try to live as cruelty free as possible regarding what I eat and what products I buy, but the rest for the animal rights activists.
     And so when it comes to our pets, what is the right level of commitment? A few years ago the Oprah magazine had an article about a woman who spent over $60,000 on her dog and the various medical treatments it needed. The article received the most mail ever. Some people applauded her, others condemned her. Perhaps that amount of money is excessive, afterall, the same amount of money donated to a spay/neuter program might have a more far reaching outcome. I often get calls from people at the other end of the spectrum. The caller has a clearly sick bird which I am expected to diagnosis and treat over the phone. I’ll get a description of the bird breathing heavy and laying on the bottom of the cage and I’ll tell the caller they need to immediately seek veterinary care. “But it is just a cockatiel,” I’ll hear in protest. “The care will cost more than I paid for the bird.”
     Well what do you want me to do? I want to scream at them, but instead I will give them a name of a clinic near them, say a silent prayer for the bird and end the call as soon as I can. While I realize we all have financial limits, if you choose to bring a pet into your home you must be willing to provide basic care. By the time people call me, little can be done, and I think that is what they want to hear, to alleviate any feelings of guilt as they watch their bird die. Veterinary care is expensive, but it is one thing to not be able to afford a lengthy hospital stay or expensive surgery and quite another to not even take a sick animal in for a diagnosis. Birds are surprisingly hardy little creatures and most of the time if an illness is caught early treatment is successful. My Budgie, Bobo, whom I’ve written about earlier, comes to mind. By treating him I was rewarded with more time with this loving little bird. Over the years I have had many animals, some diagnosed with terminal illnesses much too soon. There was a cat in my life once. She was my 'heart' animal, the pet I was closer to than any other I had at the time, and perhaps even since. Her name was Jasmine, and when she came into my life her situation appeared utterly hopeless.

Feather Picking

2010-03-27T17:10:00.079-05:00

Do you own a bird that feather picks? Are you worried that your bird may develop into a feather picker? Perhaps you have a friend who is dealing with this problem with their bird. The point is nearly every bird owner has some knowledge of feather picking in pet birds. It is a syndrome that frustrates both the bird owner and the avian veterinarian.

Sometimes it can be a single, catastrophic event. Years ago I remember reading about a horrible tragedy where a flower shop owner was murdered in front of her parrot. The bird, viewing the horrific scene and unable to help, subsequently pulled out every feather it could reach. Sometimes it is caused by a physical disease. A cockatiel that starts picking under its wings and along its legs may have Giardiasis; a parasitic infection of the lining of the intestine by Giardia. These teeny beasties are one celled, reproduce asexually, and can affect dogs, cats, horses, humans and birds. In cockatiels it often causes specific picking patterns. A simple fecal exam will show whether or not the parasite exists, and although highly contagious and potentially life threatening, easily treatable.

More often that not a case of picking is not as dramatic as the first example, nor as clear cut as the second example. In fact the problem is so complex it can take years to work through the issue. It is imperative, though, to get an avian veterinarian to see your bird at the onset of the episode. It is useless to try to treat a problem as an emotional disorder if it is a physical problem. Imagine you had poison ivy and the doctor put you in a strait jacket. Would that help fix the problem? The same would be true for a bird with a collar on and a yeast infection in the feather follicles or crop.

DO YOU HAVE A FEATHER PICKER?

If you have had your bird to an avian veterinarian and have ruled out physical causes, consider one of the following:

Dry Air. This is especially an issue during a Minnesota winter. Feather picker or not everyone who owns birds should run a humidifier near the cage. Remember, most exotic birds are tropical and need a humid environment.
Allergens. This is a relatively new idea, but there is some anecdotal evidence that birds can develop allergies- either to food or their environment. There is a prescription only allergy diet available through veterinary clinics. Consult your veterinarian.
Smoking. A big no-no. If you smoke, it must be done away from your bird. Not only can it cause feather picking, but it can be tremendously damaging to your bird’s respiratory system. It is recommended that in addition to smoking outside or away from your bird that you wash your hands before handling your bird.
Hormonal Surges. Breeding season, and the subsequent hormonal surges, can cause feather picking. If you suspect this, limit the amount of physical contact with your bird. Do not spend less time with your bird, just avoid petting his or her back and (unintentionally) signaling to your bird that you are a willing mate.
Tension. Are you overworked? Underappreciated? Suffer from road rage, generally feel frustrated, angry, depressed? Well, then, so does your bird. Birds are emotional creatures, programmed to read emotional signals. Focus on yourself and you may discover that you are unwittingly subjecting your beloved pet to your negative feelings. You may get a tension headache- but your bird could pull out its feathers. Learn to relax. Studies show that 15 minutes of “down time” can do wonders. Sit quietly with your bird, especially if you work outside the home all day. Just sit down and give your bird some one- on- one time. Remember, while you were gone all day your bird spent a long and perhaps lonely day in its cage. You both need this time together.
Loneliness and Boredom.

Birds are complex, flock oriented creatures. The hard fact is that there can be arguments against captive breeding and owning “pets” that are essentially wild creatures. But it doesn’t change the reality that there are already thousands of birds in households. So we must provide them with the best life possible. They need companionship. If you can’t provide enough time and only have one bird, consider adopting one from a shelter as a companion for your bird. However, this can be a complex issue depending on the species.
Know Your Bird’s P.Q. (Play Quotient). Enrich your bird’s environment. Every bird has a different toy personality. Know your bird’s natural habitat, and provide your bird with the right toys. In controlled studies, birds that were picking and were given the appropriate enriched environment often stopped. Toys aren’t a luxury, they are an absolute necessity.

These are just a few of the unlimited reasons a bird can pick, which is why the problem can be so frustrating. If you have had your bird completely checked out by an avian veterinarian and have tried the previously listed suggestions my advice would be to perhaps accept that you have a feather picker. There are many other treatments involving alternative medicine, ranging from acupuncture to supplements. Should you try them? I would say yes, if they are safe. Maybe something will work. I believe an alternative treatment helped my cockatoo Gilligan. However, he was mutilating to the point where his life was in danger, and I reached a point where I was willing to try anything to save his life. Today he is a happy, healthy and beautifully feathered bird. I believe his problems stemmed from the method in which he was bred and his early lack of socialization. But unless your bird is mutilating and endangering its life there is only so much you can do, and you may have to accept that. In the case of severe mutilators, the bird may have to be collared to save its life, but a constantly collared bird is not going to be a happy one. It may be that the early socialization of your bird, that is, how it was captive bred and raised, has more to do with picking than we have previously realized. At least, that is what some avian veterinarians and behaviorists have suggested. Only time will tell. Our goal as companion bird owners should be to arm ourselves with as much knowledge as possible and strive to provide the best for our beloved companions.

I once listened to a fascinating lecture by Susan Orsoz on the topic of self-injurious behavior in monkeys and a possible connection to that and feather picking in pet parrots. One of the lowest points for me as a bird owner was the evening I returned from a rare evening out with my husband. I had been struggling for almost three years with my feather picking cockatoo. He had been in two homes and two boarding facilities before a year and a half old, and essentially abandoned at the last boarding facility. He was very thin and had very poor feather quality, but otherwise seemed in good health. He was personable and charming, and initially seemed to thrive in his new home. However, about six months after I brought him home he started mutilating. It started out with a small opening on his chest, which he would rip away at until he had a gaping wound. His chest had been stitched closed several times, and I was forced to collar him until the wound healed. He would be fine for a few days, and then it would start all over again. This went on for about two years He wore a full collar, with the acrylic neck piece and the plate that went beneath it. (Prior to doing this, I had ruled out every medical cause of his picking, including lead and zinc poisoning).He mostly mutilated his chest and the collar kept him from doing so. However, in his desperation to pick he managed to reach around it and he had nearly chewed off one of his legs in the three hours or so we had been away from home. I held him that night and cried. Why was he so miserable, so desperate? He had everything …an adoring female companion, Octavia, a huge space to play and climb, toys, the right food, people who loved him and cared for him. Between my husband and myself he got hours of attention everyday. I read everything I could on picking, and I did eventually find something that worked. Between the herbal supplement and intense behavior modification I have a “cured” feather picker, although I admit I never feel safe. Like a recovering addict, I feel there is always a risk that he could regress at any moment. So it is a topic that continues to fascinate me, and I continue to read all that I can on the subject. There are countless reasons for picking, and of course the medical ones have to be ruled out first. But it seems to me that at the top of the list for remaining reasons would be errors in early socialization and later, boredom with their environment. There have been studies that corroborate this. In one study, a researcher documented that Puerto Rican Amazon Parrots spent 4 to 6 hours per day foraging and that they traveled several miles between sites. By contrast, most pet birds spend 30 to 60 minutes a day eating without traveling, “digging” for food, or with any opportunity to select from a huge array of edible items and balance their own diet. You know, grubs one day, fruit or seeds the next, etc. In another study, Orange- winged Amazons that were parent raised until weaning developed into feather pickers when separated into individual cages. They were divided into two groups when the feather picking began. The first group was provided with an environment where they were allowed to forage, climb, open containers to find food items and otherwise given a very enriched environment. Regular sources of food were also available. However, they used every opportunity they had to forage and refeathering occurred within two weeks, with six of the eight birds improving. The study suggests that an enriched environment improves but does not entirely eliminate feather picking.

While it seems clear that foraging and an enriched environment is valuable in helping to stop feather picking, there is another component that is harder to correct. As I am sure all of you know, birds are flock creatures that exist in the wild in complex social structures. During breeding season, the groups consist of breeding pairs and their young, but during non breeding season they still maintain a social group. The size varies with the different species of birds.
Monkeys, like birds, exist in social groups and what I found disturbing about the study Orsoz discussed (ethics aside regarding severe emotional trauma to lab animals) is that these monkeys continued to engage in self injurious behavior even when provided with an enriched environment. Researchers found on the monkeys that the heart rate escalated prior to inflicting a wound on itself, remained elevated during the bite, and then dropped afterward. This suggests that the biting is actually physically reinforced; the body actually reacts positively to the abnormal behavior. The details of the study intself are pretty horriffic, but involved severe emotional deprivation and isolation of baby monkeys. In an effort to comfort themselves the monkeys began mutilating.

     Birds typically start feather picking upon sexual maturity. The hand rearing similarities between the monkeys studied is virtually the same way captive bred birds are often raised today. In the study monkeys that were mother reared, but singly caged later did improve with an enriched environment, while the hand fed monkeys mostly did not improve and in fact worsened over time, even when provided with an enriched environment. They simply lacked the ability to cope with stress and loneliness.
     Because the Animal Welfare Act guidelines in research are strict, no monkey was isolated in a room without some sort of contact with other monkeys- even though they were individually caged they could see and hear other monkeys. But what is one of the most common practices in the pet bird industry today? To sell very young, sometimes unweaned baby birds that have been removed from their parents and siblings and reared singly by humans. Unless the bird has been weaned by a very qualified person that is perhaps weaning other birds at the same time the bird is raised in isolation. Even if the new owner has other birds in the home, the baby is often kept separate for quarantine reasons.
     I think one of the most common myths I run across is that only a baby bird will bond to a human. My female cockatoo, Octavia, leapt into my arms from the first moment I reached out to her. She was 20 years old at the time. While she adores Gilligan, my male cockatoo, she also has a wonderful bonded relationship with me. If we are to draw correlations to the study done with monkeys it is that the way birds are captive bred and raised may be a significant factor in feather picking. Feather picking and mutilating behaviors have increased significantly with the advent of hand raising, especially if those birds are sold very young and then place in individual cages in single bird homes. I have found it interesting that in my years of working with unwanted birds I can think of only a couple of birds that have done poorly in 'shelter' or temporary surroundings. The birds I currently care for mostly come from homes where they are the only bird, and they often improve once in the store with other birds.  It shows to me that the dynamics of a flock can go a huge way toward providing the right environment. We have in fact, taken in a number of feather pickers that have stopped once in the store. The exception to this for me are birds that pick mostly for hormonal reasons, such as the female Eclectus.

Well, in case you don’t feel like adding a roomful of birds to your house at the moment (and I wouldn’t recommend that) what can you do? If you have already established that the picking is not a reaction to a disease or one of the environmental factors discussed earlier, consider your bird’s environment. Provide as enriching an environment as possible. Never forget the intelligence and capabilities of your feather friend. I once brought a Goffin’s Cockatoo to the store from a shelter. He had been in about five homes in his 20 plus years as a “pet.” He is still congenial and interested in his environment, which is amazing in itself. As a customer and I watched in amazement, he splintered off a “toothpick” from a block of wood, and then searched in his toy box for a wooden piece with a hole in the middle. This he placed over the toothpick, spun it, lifted it up and down and generally had fun. He actually made his own toy; he created a toy from objects around him. True, it was a simple toy, but it involved a level of thinking that is amazing. Basically, he got a creative idea and then executed it satisfactorily. I have seen video of cockatoos in the wild playing with sticks and stones.

In conclusion, I would like to say that whether or not animals have levels of sensitivity and emotion, intelligence and creativity that can rival that of humans is a question for the scientists and the ethicists. However, no one should deny that all animals need to be properly parented and raised. The question of whether or not this is being effectively done with the captive bred bird is an interesting and controversial subject. If you have chosen to live with these wonderful creatures, make sure you are providing them with the best environment possible. Remember what complex social structures these incredible creatures come from. It should be remembered that no matter how great an environment you provide for your bird, it pales considerably to what it exists in the wild. That being said, it seems companion birds and the captive breeding of parrots is here to stay. Do your best to honor the spirit of the bird in your care.

Nutrition and the Pet Bird

2010-03-20T17:11:00.000-05:00

Many of the birds that are surrendered to Avalon Parrots have not been fed the healthiest of diets, and have some nutritional issues It is one of my goals as a business owner to help make your relationship with your pet bird a successful one, and we will give as much advice and support as we can. We do not sell baby birds, but wish to focus instead on finding homes for unwanted birds in shelters and on providing information on the care and feeding of your companion bird. I am amazed at how many well intentioned and dedicated bird owners do not feed their birds properly, so decided to write a brief article on nutrition.

Proper nutrition for pet birds can be a difficult problem. Not only do individual species have different dietary needs, but many birds are fussy eaters and won’t try anything they don’t recognize as food. In the wild, this saves their life. Young birds are taught by their parents what is safe to eat and what isn’t. When they are off on their own, they know not to eat anything that wasn’t introduced to them by their parents. Since in today’s captive bred pet business many birds are not properly introduced to a variety of foods, they grow up to be picky eaters. The problem is further compounded by the still large number of substandard commercial seed mixes on the market. Most of these mixes are filled with high fat sunflower seeds and not much else. The “nutritional” component in these mixes is usually the brightly colored pellets that many birds ignore. If you currently have a baby bird that you are weaning yourself (a pet store practice I abhor, but that is another topic) you need to take on the role of the parent and diligently introduce your pet to a huge variety of vegetables, fruit, and grains, as well as the high quality commercial diets.

Because I work largely with second hand birds, some whom have been in several homes before the age of five, they usually come to me with relatively bad eating habits. Often, things like M&M’s and french fries are listed under “favorite foods” on the intake sheet. Seldom are they on a pelleted diet to counter balance the poor nutrition of the other foods eaten. It can be a challenge to turn these poor eaters around, and can take months and months of hard work. My Umbrella Cockatoo, Gilligan, came to me eating only the following things: bananas, corn, sweet potato, sunflower seeds, and a commercially prepared pellet diet, which he actually never ate, but flung on the floor to get at the seeds. He was very thin and his feather quality was very poor, with frayed ends and no sheen. In healthy birds, you should not really be able to distinguish one feather from the next; they should lie smoothly over the body. The feathers should also have a sort of sheen to them. It took about a year and a lot of time, but today Gilligan is a reasonably good eater and looks great. I started out hand feeding him Harrison’s mash (I mixed this with water) or hot cereal in the morning, and I slowly introduced new foods to him. I switched him over to a higher quality pellet with less sugar and additives; he had had several yeast infections in his crop. His diet is rounded out with a very high quality dried fruit and nut blend we sell at the store which I can leave in the cage while I am away. Every morning he, as well as the other birds, are given a cooked diet as well as a variety of fruits and vegetables.

As good as many pelleted diets on the market are, I find many people believe that this is all their bird needs to eat. I know, it usually says on the container to feed your bird only pellets. But not only is this incredibly boring (remember, your companion is genetically programmed to forage and to eat a wide variety of foods) it is also NOT recommended by the Association of Avian Veterinarians that your bird eats mostly pellets. Not only is there a chance that your bird will not be getting all the nutrients he or she needs, but many pelleted diets are too high in fat, and for the little birds the protein content may be too high. The smaller birds may not drink enough water to offset this, and can suffer from kidney failure. I just don’t believe there is a magic pellet out there that will take care of every nutritional need of every species of bird that is kept in captivity.

The other myth I often come across is that birds should not have any seeds. While we all know a total seed diet is wrong, parrots most certainly should eat seeds; as much as 20% of their diet can be seeds. Remember, parrots are hook bills. Their beaks are designed to crack open nuts and seeds. It is important that you do a little research and find out where your companion bird hails from and what he or she would eat in the wild. There are vast differences among the species. For example, Hyacinth Macaws eat almost exclusively palm nuts, and need a very high fat diet, preferably one of mostly palm or macadamia nuts. Eclectus parrots have a different dietary needs than most other parrots and need a diet heavy in fruits, and much higher amounts of vitamin A and C. Birds that eat a diet higher in seeds in the wild, such as cockatiels, finches, canaries, and budgies should be given a mostly seed diet, but is must be a very high quality one, such as what I sell at the store. These seed based mixes have fruit, grains, and vegetables mixed in with the seeds. Additionally, many smaller birds will accept the pelleted diets if mixed in with the seed and mine will eat brown rice and a variety of vegetables as well.

Without going into too much detail, it is imperative that you understand that your companion bird has many of the same nutritional requirements that you do: your bird needs to have a balanced diet that includes protein, carbohydrates, and fat, as well as a long list of vitamins and minerals. Improperly fed birds can suffer everything from poor growth to feather picking to life threatening ailments such as liver disease. And I would like to stress again that while a pelleted diet is better than a straight seed diet, it is not adequate as an exclusive diet for your bird. Even the manufacturers of pelleted diets cannot agree on the right amount of protein, fat, calcium or vitamin A or D in their formulas and they vary widely. I believe the best thing to do is feed your bird mostly fresh and cooked food, and supplement this with one or two different pellets and a high quality seed/nut blend.

“But I don’t have time to give my bird fresh food every morning, and I’ve heard fresh food shouldn’t stay in the cage all day!”

Yes, I know, for many of you mornings are a very hectic time, and you are running out the door without eating breakfast yourself. It really doesn’t take much time to prepare the food, but if you are trying to change a fussy eater you need to do so when you have the time. There is no law that says birds have to have cooked food in the morning, it is just easier to make changes then because that is when they are the hungriest. There are some things I feel are safe to leave in the cage for a day without the danger of bacteria growing on it. One of the easiest things is to get a bird safe skewer and string chunks of corn on the cob, carrots, apples, broccoli, etc (all raw) and hang in the cage. It will give your bird something to play with during the day and provide additional nutrition. In the evenings when you have more time you can give your bird cooked foods.

As with the pelleted diets, there are many brands of commercially prepared cooked diets on the market and many of them are excellent. I often add brown rice, veggies, and diced fruit to one of the commercially available blends. My budgies will ignore the seed dish in favor of the plate of cooked food any day. If you don’t particularly like to cook these prepackaged mixes are quite easy to prepare, and generally all you need to add is water. We currently have around 40 birds in the store. Each and every day all the birds are offered fresh food in the morning. It takes less that 10 minutes to put the cooked food and fruit out for everyone. Cooking it, of course, takes longer, but is still a relatively easy task. I generally cook for the week on Monday and bag up enough portions for the week, freezing them. The small effort needed to provide a healthy diet saves costly veterinary bills later!

The birds in the photos, with the exception of George with his head in a bag of pretzels, are all enjoying my parrot lasagna.

Rocky and Louie

2010-03-13T16:28:00.000-06:00

One of the truly amazing things about parrots is their ability to adapt. Of course, in the wild this is the natural state of things; wild animals adapt to their environment. If there are too many changes outside of the natural order of things then only the most adaptable survive. It makes it all that more amazing that parrots are able to live in our homes, in an environment so different from what they are programmed to accept. Over the years much has been written about behavior, and how to control screaming, biting, feather picking, hormonal surges, and any number of other issues. Many of the birds we take in at Avalon Parrots are because of a conflict in the home, either with another family member or other birds. Regardless of how well you provide for your parrot it is an artificial environment, but one that they seem to accept, and can actually flourish in, if given enough companionship and things to do when in their cage. I think one of the keys to living with a parrot long term is acceptance. There has to be a certain amount of acceptance when it comes to behaviors we don’t like. We are asking a lot from them, to live in our homes, and be our companions.

No where is this more evident than in the case of the wild caught parrot. However you may feel about captive breeding and the number of unwanted parrots these days, it is truly tragic that so many have been taken from the wild before it became illegal. Of course, it is still done, but not to the same extent. For every bird that survived being taken from the wild and shipped to its final destination, hundreds probably died. Perhaps the word lucky cannot be used to describe the survivors; birds destined to a life of captivity, but certainly words like strong, spirited, and adaptable do.

Meet Rocky, an Orange-winged Amazon. ‘He’ is probably a ‘she’, at least 34 years old and a wild caught parrot. She has been in two previous homes before coming to Avalon Parrots. I don’t know much about the first home, only that they had her for 18 years. I doubt, though, that it was too great. For one thing, she is completely untamed and was probably not worked with much those first few years. Also, cages were abysmally small 30 years ago, and parrot toys were hardly recognized as a necessity. Food for parrots consisted of mostly sunflower seeds. She probably spent the first part of her life stuck in a cage in the corner of a house, until the owners tired of her and took her to a bird swap meet, where her new owner bought her.

Her life was better. Her new owner was more knowledgeable about parrots, and able to provide more for her. In fact, she had even owned a parrot store for ten years. She had Rocky for 18 years, but as time went on and the owner became older she was able to spend less and less time with her. She had long since sold the parrot store and her new job consisted of a long commute and even longer work hours. Once again Rocky found herself spending long days, even months at a time, in her cage, and she quickly returned to her previously wild state. Never one to step onto a hand, she was no longer even perch trained. Recognizing that she was not able to provide the time and attention her birds needed, the owner came to us. I agreed to take her Severe Macaw, Libby, and Rocky. She was planning to keep her Senegal, something I felt a little sad about, because Rocky was very attached to the Senegal.

Libby was an easy placement, and is doing well in her new home. Rocky, I felt, deserved to live in as wild an environment as possible, and when I found an appropriate sanctuary situation wanted to place him in as wild a habitat as possible. The first few days were rough. She was terrified of me, and screamed every time I approached her. Coaxing her into her cage at night was an ordeal for both of us. But it wasn’t long before she accepted the new routine in her life. As soon as she saw me putting the other birds in their cages for the night, she would climb into hers. As she settled in, she began to take an interest in the birds around her. My heart ached for her, she so desperately wanted a friend. Unlike the other captive bred birds in the store, who are eager for human interaction and touch, Rocky wanted none of that and spent her days alone, sometimes comforting herself by gently rubbing the back of her own head. She tried first to make friends with Poindexter, my Senegal. She would climb down from her cage and go over to his. While there was no aggression, he certainly wasn’t interested and though the two sat side by side at times, there was no interaction. She gave up and set her sights on George, a Jardine’s. George was happy enough to be invited to her roomy cage, and ran up and down the perches and ate with enthusiasm out of her food dishes. But whenever she approached him he became rather aggressive, and so I put an end to that budding friendship. Besides, Rocky was learning to play with toys and seemed much happier. She especially loved balls with bells in them, or any type of foraging toy.

And then into her life walked Louie, a Quaker Parrot. Louie had been there all along, but perhaps because she came in initially bonded to a Senegal she failed to notice him. I am not exactly sure what happened. It seems one day they were ignoring each other, and the next day they were inseparable. Louie is affectionately nicknamed Sid Vicious. One look at him and you will see why. His eyes dance with mischievous glee. He will entice you over for a little head scratch and then bite. and gleefully chuckle afterward. He is full of energy and mirth. He is also very human bonded and does seek the attention of people, largely ignoring the birds around him. He is however, interested in everyone else’s stuff. He had been exploring all the cages around him; playing with all the other toys and generally making a nuisance of himself. Rocky was sitting quietly playing with a foot toy. Louie paused to watch. You could almost read his mind. “Hey, that looks like fun!” And before I could stop him ( I still wasn’t sure how aggressive Rocky would be to other birds) Louie jumped up on Rocky’s cage and snatched it away. Now I hate to keep anthropomorphizing, but Rocky looked at him with stunned disbelief. All I could think about was kids in a playroom where one clearly does not play well with others. She tried to retrieve her toy, but Louie would have none of that. And so the friendship was formed. It makes it all the more endearing that the bullying one is half the size of his friend. As soon as their cages are uncovered in the morning, Rocky searches out Louie. They eat together (with Louie often grabbing the food from Rocky), and they play together, and preen each other. I had of course intended on adopting Louie out but now am not too sure. For now I am content to know they have each other, and that Rocky is perhaps enjoying a quality of life she hadn’t previously .

The Captive Cockatoo, Part 2: Gilligan

2010-03-06T16:37:00.000-06:00

My little Budgies filled the house with their cheerful chirps. We had recently bought our first home and their cages were about the extent of our living room furniture. I also had a cockatiel, Koko, adopted from the humane society, next to the Budgies. Koko was having a hard time adjusting to the move to our house and screamed constantly. When he flew around the room it was in a disoriented manner, as if he was uncertain of the room’s layout and looking for something familiar. I consulted what I thought was a knowledgeable avian veterinarian for advice. He suggested shots of Depo-Provera to eliminate the screaming which he said was hormone related. He failed to inform me that Koko would be at risk of developing liver disease as a side effect. Within a month he was dead, after a lengthy and expensive stay in the hospital. During this time I became acquainted with a vet tech who was finishing up her degree in veterinary medicine. She asked me if I wanted one of the babies she had bred for her study on nutrition. And so Julius came home, a little pied Cockatiel. He quickly formed a friendship with the Budgies and my little flock happily spent their days together. It helped ease the pain over losing Koko so quickly. For now the birds were upstairs and out of their cages all day, but soon I would be bringing back two of my cats, Max and Taji. My parents had graciously agreed to keep them until we could buy a house. My other three cats were to stay with the people who had been caring for them; it was hard for me to let them go but they were happy and healthy and my friends had made them part of their family. We kept in contact over the years and all three cats lived out their natural lives.

What happened to Koko fueled my interest in birds. I was angry about his death and the casual manner in which he had been given a potentially harmful drug with known side effects for small birds. It is hardly ever used anymore for birds; Lupron is considered more effective and without the risk of causing liver failure. I began to read everything I could find on parrots. This was a few years before the internet was to become a household word and so it was not that easy to find current information. The library carried some general care books; otherwise, my only source of information was a magazine called Bird Talk, still around today. Bird Talk featured monthly articles on nutrition and health care, as well as articles on various bird species. One month I opened up the magazine and saw a gorgeous photo of an Umbrella Cockatoo. “Oh,” I thought, “That’s the bird for me.” I read everything I could find on Cockatoos. They were loud. They were needy and demanding. The males often developed aggression issues. Like the people who come to my store looking for a large parrot, I dismissed the negatives. I could handle it. I love taking care of things and I loved my little birds...how much more work could a Cockatoo be? However, the going price for a Cockatoo was around $1500, well out of my budget.

Imtiaz had other concerns. I had enough birds, he insisted, and the cats were coming back. That should be enough. He was right, of course; four birds and two cats was more than enough. But my interest in Cockatoos and parrots in general did not wane. I repeatedly brought up the idea of getting one. Finally in exasperation he said, “We aren’t spending $1500 on a bird. If you can find one for free you can have it.” He thought he was safe.

When you look back over your life, there are usually a few key people that have a profound effect on your life, or change the course of it. Sometimes it’s an obvious influence, such as a teacher who inspired you. But often the person may not seem particularly significant or memorable at the time. It is simply someone you meet that sets in motion events that change your life. Or perhaps your life is what is…a matter of predestiny, and there are many different paths that ultimately lead to the same outcome. I don’t know, and it gives me a headache to wonder about it. However, I was at a local art fair when I met such a person, someone whose acquaintance directly influenced the course of my life. I was very busy pursuing my dream of being an artist and had temporarily forgotten about getting a Cockatoo. My days were spent getting ready for and then exhibiting my work at art fairs where I was showing almost exclusively original watercolors. This meant that sometimes I had good shows and sometimes I didn’t. It all depended on the crowd and their willingness to pay the higher price an original commanded.

This had been a good show, although exhausting. It was three long days and I had sold several large originals in addition to numerous smaller pieces. It was the tail end of the third day, and most of the artists were wandering around a bit, talking to one another and starting to take down their booths. I was happily chatting with one of my show neighbors and more or less ignoring a woman who was standing in my booth.

“Excuse me,” she said abruptly to me, “Where is this artist?”

“That’s me,” I said, feeling unprofessional. I shouldn’t have been ignoring her.

“I like your work,” she said. “I own a boarding facility for parrots and your work would be perfect there. Are you interested in displaying it?”

Warily, I took her business card. I had already had my fill of unscrupulous business owners who displayed my work but failed to pay me. It was one of the reasons I had started doing fairs.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled

“Well, check it out,” she said. We talked for a few more minutes. She had a strong personality and was a bit brash, definitely a no nonsense type. I always have difficulty turning people like that down and so I agreed to visit her business.

I was impressed. It was clean and state of the art, with separate rooms for each of her boarding clients. I walked down the brightly lit, but sterile looking hallways. My tropical artwork would definitely be a good fit. I peered into the sparkling clean rooms at the various parrots and came to a halt in front of a beautiful Umbrella Cockatoo.

“That one is up for grabs,” Maria said off handedly.

“What?” I could scarcely believe what I heard.

“He was left here. He needs a new home.”

There he was. My free bird.

It should have sent warning bells off in my head. I should have realized that if someone was willing to give away a parrot they had paid $1500 for barely two years earlier that this was a mistake.

I opened the door to the room. “Hi, Skipper,” he said amiably.

His name was Gilligan. I quickly learned the details from Maria. His owner had bought him as an unweaned baby and handfed him. In the wild, Cockatoo babies spend the entire first year of their life with their parents, often staying to raise the next clutch. They are very emotionally needy birds. Taking a bird with that emotional makeup and putting them in a situation where they are handfed by their owners can cause all sorts of behavioral problems. Few people can carry a baby Cockatoo around 24 hours a day but that is essentially what the wild parents provide and that is what Cockatoos want: to be with you all the time. They are extremely family oriented and within a wild flock develop a number of relationships. They are never alone. While some parrot species, most notably the Eclectus live more individual lives, this can not be said of the Umbrella Cockatoo. Eclectus, and many other parrot species live within a flock for safety, but Cockatoos do so for emotional support as well. Placing birds with this kind of emotional makeup in the pet trade has done them an enormous injustice. It has been my personal experience that wild caught Cockatoos actually fare pretty well in captivity, as they have learned how to manage stress and have a more stable emotional start in life, having been raised by their parents. Captive bred Cockatoos that are pulled from the parents and hand fed by inexperienced people seem to have all sorts of problems, including feather picking and skin mutilation and all sorts of behavior problems.

Gilligan was no exception. He soon developed an over attachment to his owner, whose wife was less than thrilled. When they bought a new house, she insisted the bird did not come along. Not knowing what else to do, he boarded Gilligan at a facility for dogs thinking he would be able to find a new home for him. I can only imagine what that was like for Gilligan – to suddenly go from a home where he was lavished with attention to a situation where he was housed with barking dogs, had little human contact, and never let out of the cage. He was there for six weeks, and his owner was about to put an ad in the paper and try to sell him when a woman came in to the boarding facility and happened to stop in front of Gilligan’s cage. He reached through the bars of the cage and grabbed her. She promptly brought him home, thinking it would be fun to have a second bird; she already owned a female Eclectus. But Gilligan proved to be too much fro her and after a couple of months she brought him to Maria, begging her to find a home for him. And there he was, charming me with his ‘Hi Skipper,’ ‘Kiss, kiss’, and ‘I love you’, in that childlike voice all Umbrella Cockatoos possess.

Gilligan was just under two years old when I brought him home. He had already been in two homes and two boarding facilities. While he was not necessarily mistreated in any of the situations, they were certainly less than ideal. He did not develop any sense of security, and although it was clear when I spoke to his first owner that he had loved Gilligan, the fact is he did just about everything wrong with him from a behavioral standpoint. He had a home office and Gilligan was with him constantly. He did not socialize him well with other members of the household. Gilligan says a number of things, unusual for an Umbrella Cockatoo as they are not particularly good talkers, but it is another indication of how much attention was lavished on him that first year. Although he had no problem paying the hefty price to buy Gilligan, he did not purchase toys and teach Gilligan to amuse himself, so he relied almost exclusively on humans to entertain him. And when he didn’t get the attention he wanted, he screamed incessantly.

Most people who bring a Cockatoo home have little true idea of what they are getting themselves into, and that was certainly true for me. After the initial meeting with Gilligan where he had been so sweet, I discovered that he was actually extremely aggressive toward women. At the boarding facility, uncertain and out of his element, he had been sweet and friendly. Once he was home and back in his original cage it was another story. I endured six months of very painful bites. My husband could handle him with no problem, as he preferred men. With me he lunged and bit every time I tried to handle him. I can’t imagine what possessed me to keep trying. At one point my arm was so covered in enormous bruises that my doctor questioned me about my home environment, thinking I was being abused by my husband.

In those days there wasn’t a lot of information about handling behavior issues with unwanted birds. Most articles were glowing accounts of the sweet and cuddly nature of Cockatoos. I did find one book that today remains one of my favorite behavior books. It is called ‘My Parrot, My Friend’ by Bonnie Monro Doane. Today there are a number of excellent resources available for the parrot owner who has behavior issues, but it is hard to get around the basic nature of a Cockatoo. Several years after bringing Gilligan home I adopted a wild caught female Cockatoo, Octavia (Tavi). She, too, had been in a number of homes, but the difference in their basic personality has always fascinated me. Although I don’t condone removing birds from the wild the fact that she was parent raised has made her adapt easily to life in captivity. She is sweet and affectionate but doesn’t have the overwhelming neediness I see in just about every captive bred Cockatoo, male or female. In fact, she never even screamed. She does now….she learned it from Gilligan, and she is almost as bad as he is now. But I remember when she was first at my house. Gilligan would start screaming and she would stare at him in wonderment. Then one day she joined in and hasn’t stopped since.

There will probably come a time in my life when I will no longer be able to keep Tavi and Gilligan. It is something I think about a lot and I wonder what I will do. The fact is I am aging faster than they are, and there will come a time when I will be unable to manage their care. Of course, as long as I am able to care for them, I will, but then what? Will my son, who is now only five, be able to take them at some point? Will there be a suitable sanctuary where they could go, and if so, will there be room? The sanctuaries I know of are bursting at their seams right now. It is something everyone considering bringing home a parrot, especially a large one like a Cockatoo or a Macaw, needs to ask themselves. Do you really have the ability to take care of this bird for the next thirty, forty, or fifty years? For now, my birds are safe and happy and I hope that will always be the case.

The Captive Cockatoo, Part 1: Jojo

2010-02-27T18:14:00.000-06:00

“F--- You! “F--- YOU! F---ing bitch!” he screamed at me as loud as he could. I stared in amazement, stunned at the transformation of the previously calm being to this raving maniac. “Knock it off, you f---ing whore! F--- You!” He screamed in my face. He began pacing back and forth, screaming and swearing at me for several more minutes, calling me a variety of names, and screaming the ‘F’ word constantly. If only this was an irate customer, I thought; then I would have the upper hand. I could ask him to leave, or threaten to call the police. But I was in fact dealing with an Umbrella Cockatoo, and one so completely out of control I wasn’t about to go near him. Instead, I watched with sadness as he fought with his inner demons, screaming at me the things that had been shouted at him and that his owners had screamed at each other. At one point I walked up to the cage and raised my hand to touch his foot, thinking I could calm him. He let out a scream of terror and fell to the bottom of the cage. He had done this before when I walked too closely by the cage. I now realized it was because the cage had probably been hit or slammed with an object when he was screaming.

As suddenly as the tirade started, it stopped. He calmed down, and sat with his feathers fluffed forward around his beak, a sign of contentment in Cockatoos. From my view, there had been nothing in particular that had set him off, but as I got to know him better I learned that the slightest raise in voice, even in good humor, caused unbelievable anxiety. This was soon followed by the swearing and screaming. There is no way to describe the sound of an Umbrella Cockatoo screaming other than to say it is ear splitting, nerve shattering loud and if you haven’t been subjected to it, consider yourself lucky. Many times over the years someone has wandered into the store eager to find an Umbrella Cockatoo.

“They can be quite loud,” I’ll say.

“Oh, noise doesn’t bother me,” the person will tell me smugly. “Our household is very noisy.”

Although I try, it doesn’t matter what I say to dissuade the visitor. I’ll point out that to a certain degree kids and dogs can be quieted, stereos and TVs can be turned down, and so on. But I have learned that there is very little that can be said once someone has decided to purchase a bird. We do our best here to let people know of the issues involved, but I guess it is human nature to think it will be different for you, that you alone possess the necessary skills and patience to deal with the noise and other challenges of owning a large parrot. And too, there are many of us who love ‘a project’; that want to rehabilitate an unwanted animal and give it a better life. It was certainly true for me when I brought home my unwanted Umbrella Cockatoo, Gilligan. I was sure I could turn him around. After all, I was a true animal lover. There is nothing inherently wrong with this; it is how many people dedicated to animal welfare end up in rescue work: a desire to make a difference. Unfortunately, for those individuals looking to add a large parrot to their house as a family pet it generally ends in disaster.

With any luck, Gilligan, who is at the store with me, will choose to start screaming at about the time I’m being told noise is not an issue.

“What the hell was that?” my visitor will say in alarm.

“That,” I’ll say smiling, is an Umbrella Cockatoo. “But don’t worry. He’ll only keep it up for 15 or 20 minutes, and since noise doesn’t bother you, I won’t try to quiet him down.”

The visitor will stare in dumbfounded awe. If I am really lucky, Gilligan will begin flapping his wings, hang upside and scream at the top of his lungs, and Tavi, my female Umbrella Cockatoo will happily join in. At that point I know I’ve probably successfully convinced the visitor not to get an Umbrella Cockatoo.

But getting back to Jojo, his story is typical of the larger parrots. Until fairly recently, it was very easy to purchase a Macaw or Cockatoo in one of the pet store chains. You needed no specific knowledge or training to purchase one of these birds, just the ability to pay. The birds were sold very young, sometimes not even fully weaned. Cockatoos are by nature affectionate and love to be held and petted. Combine that with the striking beauty of an Umbrella or Moluccan Cockatoo and it is easy to see why someone without knowledge would be attracted to the idea of owning one. Jojo was purchased by an elderly woman and apparently given a good and loving home for those first few years, until she found him too difficult to manage. So she did what many people do with unwanted birds: placed an ad in the paper and sold him.

He was not so fortunate in his second home. His new owners were a married couple; she was in the military. They apparently had a volatile relationship and fought constantly. Jojo was often the source of their conflict since the husband hated the bird. Based on what Jojo has repeated to me, this person was in the very least extremely verbally abusive to his wife, and perhaps physically violent. Honestly, it is appalling what Jojo says. Cockatoos don’t often develop huge vocabularies, and generally mimic as opposed to truly understanding language as African Greys are said to. Cockatoos repeat what they have heard, and usually anything spoken with high emotion is readily learned. Jojo repeated what he heard the husband say which amounted to almost every nasty name a woman can be called.

Things got worse when she was deployed. Jojo had to bear the brunt of the man’s anger and it is fairly obvious that he physically terrorized this bird. Fortunately, before permanent physical damage could be done he was removed from the home and left at a veterinary clinic where he ultimately found a new home. It is going to take years to undo the mental damage, if it is even possible.

His new owner has had him for almost two years, and he is making some progress. We board him fairly regularly at the store, and although he is still prone to outbursts and aggression he will be calm for long periods as well. It takes very little to set him off, though; he has virtually no coping skills and easily becomes terrified. Still, I feel hopeful for his future. His new owner runs a farm sanctuary and owned a Macaw for 25 years. She initially took Jojo on because her vet didn’t want him and she thought she could rehab him and put him in a permanent home. She soon realized that wasn’t going to happen and in fact it would be unfair to Jojo for him to suffer more loss and displacement. She has struggled through the hard times with him, and there isn’t a lot I can offer by way of advice. Although Gilligan has issues of his own, he doesn’t have the insecurity and history of abuse that Jojo does, so is much easier to calm down most of the time. Still, Gilligan was not an easy addition to our household and like many birds sold unweaned to inexperienced people had already developed a number of behavior issues by the time I got him. I’ve told her what I’ve learned over the years with him, and lent her some of the best books I have. Only time will tell if Jojo regains his trust. And always, when I come across such a bird, I am left to wonder, how many others are out there? How many more are being passed from home to home, being subjected to emotional and perhaps physical cruelty? It will drive you crazy, thinking like that, so I try to focus on the ones that find their way out. And even though I cringe when I pick up the phone and hear “Hi, this is Judy, and I need to board Jojo...” for I know we’ll be subjected to a week or more of nerve-jangling noise, I am glad he is in my life in some capacity. I am glad I know that at least this once abused bird is now safe.

Of all the birds bred in captivity, I feel Cockatoos often have it the most difficult. In part 2 of this entry, I'll write about the difficulties I have faced with Gilligan, whom I've had for 14 years.

Bobo

2010-02-20T18:52:00.000-06:00

I received a call at the store this morning. “Can you take my Parakeet? I don’t have time for her anymore.” I knew who the caller was, (what did we do before caller id?) I happen to also have a very good memory for names and faces, and I recognized the name as that of a young girl who had been a customer of the store several years earlier. She had just purchased the Parakeets from a large pet store chain, and was very interested in learning everything she could about bird care. (From here on out I will refer to the birds as Budgerigars or Budgies, as that is what they are correctly called). In the interest of providing her birds with the best life possible I gave her as much free advice as I could. I couldn’t do much else; her mother was reluctant to spend any money and so I couldn’t sell her the right kind of food or provide enriching toys for the birds. I did show the young owner how to make simple toys and what fresh food she could provide for them. Whenever her mother was in downtown White Bear Lake, her daughter would stop in the store and I would answer her questions. When the store relocated to Mahtomedi, I never saw her again, although the store is actually closer to them now.

I suppose that she stuck in my mind because as sweet as she was and as well intentioned, I knew that without parents who had given much thought to the time, expense and energy it takes to keep any sort of pet happy and healthy the birds would probably not fare well. They certainly had the money to provide all the right things for these birds, but lacked either the interest or the knowledge to do so.

And so when she asked the question, “Can you take my Parakeet?” My first thought was “What happened to the other one?” But I didn’t say anything. I told her of our surrender fee, which is nominal, and doesn’t even cover half my initial cost in testing the bird. “Ok,” she said, and hung up. Deciding to start charging a surrender fee was not an easy decision, but one of financial necessity. We have taken in a number of small birds over the years, and our adoption fees don't even cover the initial testing costs. Even though we do recoup that cost in adopting out a larger bird, the overall costs associated with running my rescue have made it necessary to collect a surrender fee to help offset some of our expenses. Still, it is difficult to know that charging a fee may mean the bird does not get surrendered to us. When I receive a call, it is often when the caller has reached his or her limit; I can tell that this is it; the caller wants to get rid of their bird now. Many times when they hear there is a fee, they immediately hang up in anger. I spend the rest of the day wondering what is going to happen to that bird. It is an unfortunate fact of economics; as much as I want to help every caller, take in every unwanted bird, I simply lack the resources.

I was afraid the same thing was going to happen today. The fact is I have a very soft spot in my heart for Budgies. My first bird was a Budgie, Bobo. I adopted him from the humane society almost 20 years ago. He was surrendered because he bit, and the adoption staff was not going to put him up for adoption. “He’s mean,” one of the workers said. “We’ll probably just euthanize him.” She said it off handedly, with no emotion, which I suppose is what can happen when it is something you deal with day in and day out. I asked if I could have him.

“Why would you want him?” she asked “I told you he bites.”

I did want him, and in less than 24 hours he was a bird that did not bite; in fact, he was one of the most affectionate pets I have ever owned. He could not fly due to an injured wing, which I assumed was from rough handling. If you approached him with your finger, he lunged and bit, most likely because he had been repeatedly poked and teased. I had never owned a bird before, but I instinctively offered him the flat of my hand, and he hopped right up. Bobo was about 9 when I adopted him; he died at the age of 15 from a stroke. He actually had two strokes, the first one paralyzed half his body and I thought I should have him put down. But my vet said “If he is singing and eating, let him be”. Bobo loved to follow me around the house. His spirit was so strong that he would still follow me after his stroke, half paralyzed. I can still hear his cheerful morning whistle. He died a few weeks later from a second stroke. It is the memory of him, and what he represented to me that keeps me going when I feel overwhelmed. I wish every unwanted animal could get a second chance, but is just isn’t possible.

I thought I would not hear from my former customer again. But an hour or so before the store closed she showed up with a friend. I let her know I remembered her, and asked her what happened to the other one. “I just found him dead,” she said, and I could tell she felt uncomfortable so I didn’t question her further. I was relieved she had decided to bring the bird here. She paid the surrender fee, which she handed over in crumpled fives and a ten. “Baby sitting money,” I thought, and I felt a twinge of guilt in taking it despite the financial necessity. I admired her for doing the best thing for this bird, and for paying the fee herself. I only wish more parents would think twice before buying their child an “easy” pet such as a Budgie. I cringe when I think of the thousands, and I am sure it is thousands, of lonely little Budgies sitting in bedrooms or a corner of a family room, half forgotten. Budgies are gregarious and love company and in the wild live in huge flocks. Unfortunately they are a cheaply purchased pet, a way of mollifying a child clamoring for a bird. However, few children can handle the day in and day out care a pet takes, and it is all too easy for busy parents to forget about a caged pet. I am glad that I will be able to give this one a second chance.

On the same day this little Budgie was surrendered, a long time customer of the store who had adopted a cockatiel from us emailed me wondering if we had any single Budgies. It looks like this little one will soon have a new home!

Humane Society Days

2010-02-13T14:57:00.002-06:00

The following entry is about my volunteer days with an animal shelter a number of years ago...

For the first time in my life I was living without pets. We had just moved to the area and in our tiny one bedroom apartment were unable to have our five cats with us. I was only working part-time and was looking for a useful way to occupy my free time. I decided to volunteer at the local humane society. It was a life changing action for me.

There are two things I think everyone should do at some point in their lifetime: one is work in a service job such as waiting tables or cleaning motel rooms and the other is to volunteer for a cause you believe in. The shelter I chose to volunteer for was a high volume shelter and they did euthanize animals. There are many people, of course, that hate this practice and would not consider supporting such an organization. While emotionally it is something I am against, intellectually I know it is a sad, sad reality. The numbers are simply too high, and even with no kill organizations there is a limit to how many animals you can help. I myself am in that position with my parrot rescue. A bird that bites, especially one that has been mistreated, is common in parrot rescue. I would not consider euthanizing such a bird. However, it limits my space availability as an aggressive bird is much harder to adopt out. The harsh reality is there are more unwanted animals out there than there are homes and when people are looking for a pet, a disproportionate number of them still want a kitten or puppy, or a baby bird that has been hand fed.

I knew prior to volunteering that I would be witnessing, or at least be aware that animals were being put down. I was still unprepared for the grim reality of it, of the sheer waste of life. Any animal surrendered for behavior issues went immediately to the euthanasia cages. With dozens of animals being surrendered every day it was necessary to make hard decisions from the beginning. When the shelter was overloaded, animals with easily treated illnesses such as an upper respiratory infection were also put down. My volunteer position was to help with incoming animals and also to work on socializing the cats, and helping make the shy ones more adoptable. It was soon evident to me that an individual cat’s innate personality could mean the difference between life and death. Some of the cats were loud “meowers” who stuck their paws through the bars of the cage and demanded attention. Others huddled miserably in the back of the cage, too depressed or shy to respond to anyone standing in front of their cage. It was of course the ones that demanded attention that quickly found their way into new homes. The shy cats were the ones that I would focus on, for I found that after a few minutes of attention and they would start to come out of their shell, and the more time I spent with them the more relaxed they became.

This annoyed some of the paid staff. Although I found the staff to be conscientious and hard working, I was unprepared for a callous attitude some of them had for the animals. I thought that anyone working for the humane society must absolutely love animals, and many of them did, of course. But for some it was just a job and they seemed to find the volunteers disruptive. Perhaps we drew attention to the fact that these were individual lives. I was shocked at how many of them gave the animals no individual attention but went about their job simply doing the work and ignoring the animal. It seemed to me that volunteers willing to provide that individual attention would be welcome, but most of the employees at best ignored me and a few were downright rude to me. There was one employee, though, that went out of her way to be kind to me, who understood that I was there trying my best to help. It was her friendliness and the fact that I believed I was helping the cats that kept me coming in three times a week.

It was difficult not to form attachments, even though I knew the outcome wasn’t always a good one. For the past week I had spent a lot of time with one particular cat, Cinnamon. He was brought in because of a divorce. It had already been a particularly difficult morning for me. When I came in that day I learned that JoJo, Pooter, Splinter, and Makey – all cats I had cared for earlier that week had all been euthanized. I rushed over to Cinnamon’s cage, fearing he had met the same fate. He was huddled in his litter box, as he had been the first time I saw him, dejected and confused. I opened the cage, petted him a little, and talked to him softly. He immediately responded and climbed out of the litter box. He was a longhair orange tabby, rather unkempt and on the thin side, but very affectionate. I took him into the volunteer room and let him stretch a little while I brushed him. I kept thinking about all the other cats out there while I petted him absentmindedly. The door burst open, and one of the more short tempered employees came in and irritably told me to leave, so I placed Cinnamon back in his cage.

When I could reclaim the room I took in a small cat called Goofy. She came in the previous week with four kittens practically bigger than her. A tiny, long hair cat, obviously neglected, she was brought in with the kittens because her owner was unable financially to care for them. When she was in the adoption room, she hissed if her kennel door was opened, but out of fear, not hostility, so she became another cat that was overlooked by people seeking to adopt. No one was interested in the tiny ragamuffin bundle at the back of the cage. I took her out and brushed and brushed her while huge clumps of fur came off. She brightened up a bit, became very affectionate and brushed against my legs. When I took her back to her cage, she seemed a little less depressed, a little more eager to see people, and came up timidly to the front of the cage.

There were so many others, and so many heartbreaking situations: two half grown kittens brought in nearly starved to death; their owner had only had them a month but hadn’t bothered to feed them; a cat with kittens found in a kennel inside a car, left to die. Cinnamon was adopted, but Goofy became sick and too weak to fight her illness, had to be put down. I knew that I had to focus on the ones that received that second chance, like Cinnamon. For as heartbreaking as it was to know of the ones who didn’t make it, it was providing that second chance that mattered. This small truth was something I internalized, and was no doubt the beginning of my parrot rescue. I wasn’t able, in our current situation, to bring home a cat, but I was able to give several unwanted Budgies a new home. One of these birds was the previously mentioned green Budgie Bobo. As despairing as it can be to focus on all the animals destroyed each year, it is more productive to try and make a difference, however small a gesture it may seem. For me, during a time when I could do very little to provide an unwanted cat with a new home, I was able to do that for a small green bird.

Max

2010-02-06T19:56:00.000-06:00

I looked down at the tiny, frail body and knew it was time. For three years I had been fighting his kidney disease by giving him intravenous fluids but the past few weeks he had gradually lost the will to live. Still, when you have had an animal in your life for nearly twenty years letting go of him in the end is enormously difficult. I called the vet clinic, hoping against hope that my vet would suggest another treatment, but he confirmed what I already knew. It was time. I called my husband, who worked nearby and had been expecting my call. He was there in a few minutes, but chose to wait in the lobby with our young son. I wanted to be with Max, and as I watched the life fade from his eyes my mind was flooded with a tableau of images: Max as a tiny kitten struggling to drag a feather duster across the floor or curled up with Taji, his front legs wrapped around her; Max running wildly through our apartment chasing moths or staring out the window, teeth chattering at the neighborhood birds; Max dirty and hungry after being lost for nine days and meowing with relief as I held him. I thought about the kind of cat he was: a patient cat, who put up with fluid injections a couple of times a week as his kidneys started to fail, and a gentle cat who was bullied by our other cats. Max was the cat who was most likely to be near me when I needed a companion. And finally I thought about a very elderly Max, quietly sitting beside me the day I brought our newborn son home from the hospital and as my companion during three o’clock feedings when my son was a baby. It was time to let him go, and I knew that. I could only hope that he felt at peace.

     The first time I saw Max was typical of his spirit. It was the summer of 1988, and I was planning a trip home to Rapid City, South Dakota. I packed up my tiny three cylinder Sprint, ready to make the nearly 600 mile trip. Imtiaz was not coming along this time, so I did not need to line up pet care for our two cats, Georgia and Taji. While in Rapid City, my mom and I stopped by to visit her long time friend, Jean. Her chronically pregnant cat, Molly, recently had a litter of kittens. I was anxious to see them as one was an orange tiger striped cat, and Imtiaz liked orange tiger striped cats. Perhaps I could convince him we needed a third cat. After scrabbling around the kitchen and dining room, her son Billy eventually tracked down and caught the kitten.

     “We think it’s a girl,” he said, panting slightly form the chase, “So her name is Rambina – after Rambo.”

     I took one look at the kitten and knew it was a male, something I confirmed by peering under the tail. At nine weeks old there was enough evidence there, plus there was a definite male attitude. This cat was all squirming energy and spunk. When I let go of him he tore madly around Jean’s living room, jumping up on furniture, going underneath chairs. Their big, good natured dog Pogo gleefully joined in and a wild, crashing game of tag ensued. We sat down with Jean and watched. Every few minutes the kitten jumped into my lap, purring madly, then bounded away with Pogo lumbering behind. Rambina was quite comical in appearance. His nose and face were half orange and half white, giving him a sort of unfinished look. His body was orange but he had four white paws and a white belly. As he sat purring in my lap I turned to Jean.

     “Are you thinking of finding a home for him?” I asked hopefully.

     Jean said yes, and I began plotting. Imtiaz did like orange cats, but that didn’t mean he wanted to add a third cat to our house.

     It was a surprisingly easy sell, he was less resilient back then, and within a few days I was heading back to Fargo with our new kitten. I assumed he would spend the trip sleeping, and hadn’t bothered to pick up a cat carrier. He spent about ten seconds on the carefully made up passenger seat, then set to work exploring my tiny car. While he was tearing madly from the back seat to my head and then the dashboard, I thought, “Great – ten hours of this?” and thought about stopping to get a carrier. But he soon collapsed in my lap and did sleep nearly the rest of the way. It was the last decent sleep he got for a while.

     Introducing a new cat can be challenging. Of the two we already had, Georgia and Taji, Georgia was the dominant one. It was soon painfully clear how dominant she was. Georgia stalked him relentlessly. She was protective of quiet Taji and guarded her fiercely against this orange demon. If he happened to walk by her, she pounced on him and pounded his head with her paw so that it bounced against the floor like a basketball. Taji sat huddled close by and managed a few soft hisses. Max, as we decided to call him, was definitely unwanted by those two. He started hiding, his places getting more and more creative. One of his favorite hiding spots was inside our reclining chair, something that made me very nervous. Although we routinely tipped the chair up and peered inside before sitting, I was afraid that sooner or later one of us would forget and he would get crushed when the chair reclined. We had to put a stop to Georgia’s abuse.

     Georgia was so aggressive I was afraid to leave him alone with her, so I started shutting him inside the bedroom when we were gone. This alleviated some of his stress, and soon his playful nature returned. He strutted around the apartment, happy enough, until he saw Georgia. Then he sunk into the carpet, hanging his head and waiting for the inevitable blows.

     A couple of weeks after bringing him home Georgia stopped next to Max while he cowered and I cringed, but instead of swatting him she raised her paw and gently patted him. And that was it; from that point on she left him alone. She seemed to have resigned herself to the fact that not only did she have to share her apartment with two people, but two other cats as well. She then did a thorough cleaning while he purred and rubbed against her. Taji and Max became inseparable. They were roughly the same age. But Max was bigger and more robust. He looked after Taji and she copied everything he did. Whatever brilliant scheme of destruction Max hatched, Taji gamely followed along. The two were adorable when they were sleeping, with Max curled protectively around her. Other than that, it was clear I had not one but two menaces. They climbed curtains to catch moths, swinging wildly from the fabric. Max jumped up on a wall mounted knick knack shelf, gleefully knocking down both valuable and sentimental items. Taji helpfully batted them across the floor, adding to the damage. Once in search of a feather duster I had hidden, he jumped on top of the refrigerator, knocking over open boxes of Minute Rice and cereal. Taji ran through the spilled mess, scattering rice over the entire kitchen floor. Despite my efforts to sweep it up, I stepped on grains of rice for weeks afterward.

     Within the next year I would have to say goodbye to Max, Taji, and Georgia as well as two more cats we added, Andy and Molly. After graduating with a triple E degree, Imtiaz was unable to find a job in his field. We decided a move to a larger city was necessary. It was the middle of the school year; I would stay behind and finish teaching. Imtiaz moved to the Minneapolis-St. Paul area and we began a year of weekly commutes between Fargo and St. Paul. By Spring he still had not found a job in his field; I was reluctant to leave my teaching position before he found something permanent. But then the school board made my decision easy by cutting my position to half time, but scheduling the day in such a way I still had to be at the school all day. Disgusted, I put in my resignation without any idea of what I was going to do next.

     We soon discovered that renters with five cats were not in high demand, and we were unable to find a suitable place to rent. I placed our beloved cats with friends and family, hoping that we would be able to take them back when we were more settled.