Some people are dog people. Some are cat people. I’m becoming a bird person, and I’m just beginning to understand why.
First, there was Daisy, my Sun Conure, whose brilliant colors resemble those of a yellow and orange sunrise. I bought her long before I met my husband, during my single days when a break-up usually resulted in the addition of a pet. My courtship with Daisy required several dates. I visited her often in the pet store. She screeched whenever she saw me. The owners explained how she was dumped by her former owners, so they’d sell her to me for a reasonable price. They taught me how to persuade Daisy to “step up” on my index finger and were extremely enthusiastic. “She doesn’t come to just anyone,” they convinced me. She likes me, she really likes me! I thought. Until she bit me. Not once, but twice. Granted, I knew nothing about handling birds, but I took it to heart. My feelings, not just my fingers, were hurt. I tried once more. I explained to Daisy how I understood what it meant to be dumped because I had been dumped too, and I knew how it felt. I promised I would never dump her, and I felt certain she understood, because from that moment on, we bonded. She hasn’t broken any skin since.
Later I bought a little green Quaker to keep Daisy company. Again, I got a deal at the pet store from the owner who had received him as a trade-in. Since Daisy has never been much of a talker, I was intrigued by this little green bird, who said “Hello, Baby!” and “Whatcha doin’?” and a myriad of other unintelligible garble. I named him “Einstein” because he was such a smarty.
Unlike Daisy, who constantly screams for attention until I cover her cage, Einstein is a busy little guy. He entertains himself with bird toys, jabbers and whistles a lot, and scatters birdfood pellets everywhere. He visits Daisy whenever I let him out, which annoys her to no end. He goes after me if I stick my hand in his cage and knocks his water bowl over, laughing as he does so. My husband affectionately refers to him as the little cur. Even though he can be downright mean at times, I find Einstein’s antics hilarious.
As if two birds weren’t enough, my husband surprised me with a third—a Sulphur-crested Eleanora Cockatoo we named Lily. We met Lily earlier this year when we were on vacation in Maui. My husband immediately fell in love and asked me several times whether I wanted her. “No! I don’t!” I said. “Absolutely not!” Nonetheless, as a present for me, my husband had her shipped home, just before Easter.
I must admit that Lily has been a charming addition to our family. She’s behaves like a child in the terrible-two stage, getting into trouble whenever we look the other way. She bangs her toys against her cage for attention, puts everything in her mouth and squawks when she doesn’t get her way. Lily adores my husband and cries whenever she sees him, until he gives in by picking her up. He adores his little girl too, cuddling her close, and I assume my place, second in line, but only to her.
Birds are not like dogs. They don’t come when you call, they won’t protect you from intruders, and they don’t treat you like a best friend. Birds are not like cats. They aren’t independent, quiet or clean, and they prefer attention rather than be left alone. No, birds are demanding. They are self-assured. They know what they want and how to get it. Birds know how to set personal boundaries; they know how to say “no” and mean it.
I’ve learned a lot from birds—about me.
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