Meet the woman who runs a parrot rescue mission out of her Owasso house.
BY JULIE WENGER WATSON
Lisa Moser also houses parakeets, macaws, Amazons, Cockatoos, Cockatiels and love birds. Valerie Grant
“He’s flirting with you,” Lisa Moser assures me on a recent visit to her home.
The signs were there: the puffed-out chest, the slight cock of the head and the seductive sideways glances. But the gentle nips on my forearm and the constant circling threw me off.
Moser’s house is filled with parrots — everything from African Greys, like my flirtatious friend — to tiny parakeets and imposing macaws.
A cacophony of squawks and a riot of tropical color greet every visitor at Moser’s Owasso home. A true friend to the feathered, Moser and a sympathetic volunteer crew of avian activists have taken in countless parrots in need from across the U.S.
Through her nonprofit, Soft Landings Parrot Rescue Inc., Moser has matched over 30 displaced birds with loving humans, while fostering an additional 60 or so at any given time in her own house. What started out as a single rescue has turned into an all-out family mission, with Moser, her husband and her kids sharing their lives with an ever-expanding flock of flying friends.
“My husband and children are a huge part of this mission, and without their help and support I could not do what I do to the scale that we do it,” Moser says. “We have given up a lot of things to do this, but we have also gained things.”
When not working nights as a nurse, Moser spends significant time rescuing parrots, caring for those she has saved and finding new homes for these birds. Her husband, Chad, and their six kids support her mission, whether it requires them to drive cross-country to fetch an abandoned pair of cockatoos, fill water bowls or clean cages.
“This is a complete family endeavor,” Moser laughs over a din of squawks and the flapping of wings.
The birds are messy and extremely intelligent. Some can live 75 years or longer. Moser says many owners don’t understand that when they bring one home. The result is countless abandoned or mistreated animals.
For Moser, the key is education. “Parrots aren’t domesticated,” she says. “We’ve brought the wild into our home. Often what gets labeled as a behavioral issue is a natural behavior.
“We have to understand that they are what they are, and to think out-of-the-box in order to accommodate them so they can have an enriched life.”
This is the best way to explain what we do everyday, what we see and what we feel while doing it.
For animal lovers like me, animal rescue is the most incredible, rewarding job… in the history of ever.
At the same time… it’s also the most heartbreaking…
The truth is…
You see a lot of things… you never thought you’d see.
You witness a level of cruelty… you didn’t think was possible.
You feel a degree of helplessness… you never thought you’d know.
You stare at painful images… soon burned into your memory… that will haunt your thoughts forever.
You try to pick up the pieces… so many pieces… of the damage you didn’t do.
You do everything in your power… but even still… you’ll never reach them all.
You’ll try to stay strong… but you’ll mostly feel weak.
You’ll build walls to protect your heart… but they’ll never keep you safe.
You’ll place barriers around your soul… but the pain will always reach you.
And no matter how hard you try to fight it… over time… here’s the truth about what happens in animal rescue…
The neglect changes you.
The abuse hardens you.
The suffering breaks you.
The ignorance angers you.
The indifference disturbs you.
The injustice destroys you.
On a daily basis… your faith will be tested.
Your heart will be wounded.
Your soul will be altered.
On a weekly basis… you’ll question yourself.
You’ll question your strength.
You’ll question the world.
On a monthly basis… you’ll fall down.
You’ll get up.
You’ll go on…
On a yearly basis… you’ll look back…
You’ll see faces…
You couldn’t save them.
You’ll learn to mourn.
You’ll learn to trust a little less.
To do a little more.
To fight a little harder.
You’ll learn to try.
You’ll learn to fail.
You’ll learn when to hold on.
When to give up.
When to let go.
You’ll learn who you are.
What you stand for.
Why that matters.
Then… at times… you’ll forget why you matter.
You’ll question what you’re doing.
You’ll wonder if it’s worth it.
But… here’s the good news…
When you forget…
When you question…
When you wonder…
All you have to do…
Is take a look around…
And you’ll see them.
You’ll see their faces.
You’ll see their smiles.
You’ll feel their love.
In their eyes, you’ll see their journeys…
You’ll remember their beginnings…
You’ll know how far they’ve come…
You’ll remember when they didn’t know you…
When they didn’t trust you…
When they’d given up.
You’ll remember how you healed them…
How you loved them…
How they loved you, too.
And as you look back…
You’ll want to move forward…
For them… and because of them.
In your darkest hours, you’ll look around…
To find the differences made… the hope given… and the lives saved…
Because you existed.
In those moments, when you look into their eyes… every doubt will be erased.
Every question will be answered.
Every worry will subside.
Because in that instant… in each of your hearts…
You both share the very same thought:
“Every bit of pain was worth it… for this moment here with you.”
And honestly… no matter what else happens…
Those moments hold all the strength you need…
To keep going.
Rescue is pain.
Rescue is joy.
Rescue is worth it… because they are worth it.
I learned two important lessons with my first companion, a budgie named Charlie. Charlie was a gift through my Dad. Mom wasn’t too keen on the idea of a bird in her new home. But Dad looked into my adorable 11 year old eyes and melted like butter. Which was one of my best skills back then. Charlie lived in my bedroom with me. Ground rules were set upon arrival. The first ground rule never made it to practice though. Charlie was to stay in his cage. I believed that ground rule was made simply because Mom didn’t understand the magic of a Charlie.
I would help her understand the magic.
And so for 6 and some years she and I danced around issues with her biting her tongue and me not paying attention. Charlie and I built a fast and wonderful relationship. I let him out every day after school to be Charlie as Charlie saw fit. Eventually Charlie would stop perching on curtains and running around on my bed to be with me at my desk or art table. I just loved Charlie for Charlie. I never expected him to be anything more than himself.
My bedroom had 3 inch orange shag carpeting. And that carpeting had millet seed. And that was my very first lesson taught to me through Mom. Unreasonable Expectations. You had to expect millet seed in the shag carpeting. Mom did not.
Charlie taught me a language. A deep path of communication that created a language highway based on trust. Not the word trust, but the acronym. You see, trust as defined in the dictionary isn’t a real thing. It’s a nice idea, but impossible for humans to practice sincerely. We aren’t built for it. We think we trust, but we always have reservations to it. And when you make something conditional, even in your heart privately, then you aren’t trusting at all.
I’m talking about the acronym T.R.U.S.T. Which when applied to your companion relationship will create a deeper communication that results in a powerful language highway.
T. stands for TIME.
I get one question more than any other during my day; How long will it take for my bird to “XYZ”? I always answer, “I don’t know, have you asked your bird?”
Parrot Time is not Human Time. Parrots live in the now. They are here, right now, doing that which they can and want to do, now. There’s no later, tomorrow or next week. There’s only now.
Humans qualify, store, section, collect, label, and spend time through measurements. We use seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years to store our time. We section off time through work, goals, projects and people. We view time in sections, and most of the time we aren’t looking at the section we are in, we are worrying about a section that isn’t here yet.
Somewhere we humans forgot the real value of time. In some cultures the elders of family and community were revered and respected simply for being old and full of wisdom. Now we put old people in buildings so they can live out the rest of their days quietly. We revered master craftsmen, scholars, teachers, preachers and those that spend a lifetime to become deep and wide in their knowledge and experiences.
The best relationships require time. Celebrating a 50th wedding anniversary means so much. You don’t marry the first person you date, and you don’t hand your house keys to a person you meet on the street.
We can only do three different actions with time. We can invest it, waste it or save it. That’s it. Investing our time pays off in more time or a better life quality. Wasting time is never to be seen again and brings no value add. Saved time creates more time to invest or save. The term “spending time” expresses no real action for your time. Looking at time in this manner it’s easy to decide where our time went. By investing time with our companion parrots we will create understanding and communication.
Parrots are simple. They are yes/no, up/down, yin/yang. So you are either investing or wasting in their eyes.
Consider your time, and invest it wisely with your flock and family to create clear communication and understanding. Those are the bedrocks of your personal language highway.
R. is for RESPECT
Not just respect for your parrot, but for the sincere truth inside your lifestyle and it’s communication. It is imperative we respect the truth that time will need to be invested sincerely with no expectations to create a personal language highway.
Easier said than done for a human. The world has become an impatient place. Our days are filled with impatient people and work demands. We want what we want when we want it. And we are so busy wanting we forget why we really wanted in the first place. Expediency has wiped out our realities. That’s why I rarely fix parrots. I’m always fixing humans.
The real question we need to ask every morning is this; What do we want WITH our parrot, not FROM our parrot.
When we share our world with a companion parrot, they are not bystanders. They are participants. They need and want to be part of all we do as a flock. We need to respect the truth of this matter.
I recently helped a flock when the mom contacted me in a very frustrated mood. She began simply; she was thoroughly frustrated and had been for weeks, and it had been building for months. I asked her to explain. She put together a grocery list of wants from her bird. A grocery list of reasons why she wanted what she wanted, and a third list as to why her bird just could not be tolerated one more minute in her life. This was the last stand. Which caught me completely off guard. This flock had been together for years. This flock had grown and prospered and been shared with friends and family for years. This flock, I thought, was one of the most stable I had ever met. But then, aren’t we all very good at showing others what we want them to see, rather than what is the daily truth of it all?
I asked her to tell me what the most pressing problem to her, and to tell me what she wanted most.
“I want my bird to stop screaming”, she said so very frustrated. I asked why. That did not help her frustration. But, it had to be answered.
“I want my bird to stop screaming so I can think!”
I asked why. That didn’t help her frustration either. But, it had to be answered.
“I want my bird to stop screaming, so I can think and work!”
I asked why. Again, this had to be answered no matter her growling.
“I want my bird to stop screaming, so I can think and work because I have an electric bill I didn’t expect!”
And THAT was the real why. Her frustration has nothing to do with her bird. It had everything to do with money. I suggested calling the Electric Company and working out a payment plan. She recommended I do something with my head that sounded uncomfortable.
I reminded her we couldn’t work on her bird, until she could think. She agreed to try. She called the Electric Company and then called me back after about 40 minutes. Her stress and frustration was totally missing. I could here a smile in her voice. I couldn’t hear her bird screaming.
Where’s Pickles?” I asked directly.
“Oh, he’s eating his 4 o’clock grapes.” she explained.
Not having to work late, she was able to go back to her normal routines rather than going straight back into working after getting home. Because she handled the real problem she returned to the routines of communication her companion had missed so much. Their personal language highway once broken, had been restored.
We must respect the core truths of our motivations or we will waste time on the wrong problem. And wasted time can not contribute to communication and our language highway. Identify the real stressor. Then stop. Disconnect.
Unless you are standing in the middle of a burning building, you can stop and disconnect to reconnect to the real problem. I also suggest seeking medical help. You’ve a great caregiver in your home. You have a parrot. Consider your companion a house call. Play with a parrot and try to stay stressed. It’s not possible.
Respect their gift of being the reminder that life isn’t that complicated. By simply doing that we are allowing our companion to participate in our solution. And they will identify with that roll! That is a powerful communication moment. Have you ever offered comfort to a friend or family member in need. Just hugging them and being with them during a hard time. Do you remember feeling them relax in your arms and “let go” for that moment? That release between the two of you was powerful. Your parrot can feel that same powerful moment offering you comfort. Companions affect biology positively. They lower blood pressure, respiration and heart rate. They raise endorphins and calming brain waves. They are powerful medicine. I self-medicate with my parrots every day!
Inclusion is a form of language. It tells our companion they belong, they are part of a flock and they are integral.
U. is for UNDERSTANDING
They are exotic parrots. They can not be trained out of that truth. We have to wipe away unreasonable expectations. We are the humans, they are the exotics, but we are both intelligent, emotional, empathetic and cognitive. There is middle ground to be sown with language and understanding.
A parrot will always act like a parrot first. A reasonable expectation for a parrot is generally unreasonable for a human. Understand that truth.
When our parrots are behaving well to our expectations, they have chosen to modify natural instincts. Creating a language highway offers an active and constant communication, as parrots prefer. Inside a parrot flock communication is a constant item. Unlike a human, parrots communication is never ending. By building that busy and consistent language we have created a Flock Mechanism.
Once inside a strong and communicating flock a parrot will choose to meet the flock’s (your) expectations before their own, for the benefit of the flock’s health and happiness. That truth is a natural instinct. By creating an active, participating, respectful flock we literally build in a natural instinct to choose our expected behaviors over their own instinctive ideas.
That truth is the core to communication and a Successful Companion Parrot Lifestyle. A flock driven by a strong language highway. Your communication creates the need for your companion to do what’s best for the flock’s health and happiness, which tends toward the human’s needs inside a human dynamic. We forget, by joining a parrot with a human we have created a hybrid flocking mechanism. It is still a flock mechanism and our companions will look within it for truths.
In the wild a parrot can do anything. Anything they choose in flight or perch or ground. They have superpowers and with those powers they have full choice. Choices made are communication. One way to build your personal language highway with your companion is by offering Immersive Choice. Creating multiple options that offer multiple choice answers will give them the opportunity to communicate with you through choice patterns. Because every action choice is communication inside a flock.
Immersive Communication requires inclusion, participation and your involvement. You are part of the hybrid flock.
By utilizing immersive choice and communication we offer a wider format of options that meet our parrot halfway between human need and parrot expectation.
S. is for SINCERITY
Sincerity is the only state of mind for a companion parrot. They are in the here and now and sincerely mean everything they do. Humans, not so much. We tend to slide a few steps back from sincere. Sincerity requires full attention and participation. That’s what gets a human off track. To sincerely communicate and build a personal language path and understanding with our companions this requires our full attention while we are investing that time. Sincerity is being fully aware. Fully focused in the moment and participating. We should focus on them because they are focused on you.
Consider the sincerity of that invested time and remember we are creating a memory for us AND them. They build on sincerity, they will seek our soft, kind voice. They will appreciate slower movements with new ideas and a patient approach during new flock transitions.
Two ways to offer sincere invested time with our companions is through Layering Interactions and Observing Interactions.
Layering interactions will make a short amount of available time, a high quality moment. Parrots don’t judge time by quantity, but by quality. When interacting with your companion bring more than one activity to the moment. For example, when I share a meal with Snickers our macaw I also bring a spoon, small cup, a bowl of water and a block of wood in his favorite shape. He’ll eat, play with his spoon, try to use the spoon on the food, dip his cup in the water to drink, and use the wood as an anvil when eating. That last bit has been a Snickers signature move all his life. I’ve layered a 30 minute experience with so much depth and conversation there wasn’t a moment left to idleness.
Observing interactions is simply waiting for our parrots to decide what the game is and how they want to spend time together. By following rather than leading we can pick up on body language and the nuances we may have never noticed had we not allowed our parrots to lead the way in play and invested time together. A parrot’s body language is a powerful language path. Learn theirs, they are always learning yours.
T. stands for TRUTH
Sincerity and Truth are mutually exclusive. But you need them both to create communication that builds your language path. You can be sincere and not truthful. I can ask what color the sky is and your reply will be, blue.
Which is a sincere answer, but not telling me of the impending black clouds of storm there lacked truth. Truth is tricky for humans as we rationalize ourselves into corners. Building your language path needs a truth established between you and your bird. The simplest of all truths. Unconditional love.
That dedicated heart and mind where a promise is made and always kept no matter the challenges. A state of being that stands solid in flock commitment and promise. When we make our marriage vows we state “till death do us part”. It’s a serious lifelong commitment. No one is leaving until they are dead. Living inside a relationship with that unspoken truth creates a safe haven for mistakes, apologies, trying, failing and trying again.
And if we have build that strong Hybrid Flock Mechanism, your flock as a whole can survive the hardest of times to come out the other side stronger and still intact. That’s the whole point of creating a constant language highway with your parrot inside a strong flock. To get through, together. Parrots are amazingly resilient inside a strong and loving flock.
It’s important not to judge another’s flock too harshly. You do not know what they have or are going through at that moment. You can’t judge their dedication inside their love. You can not weigh their current context and deem it “not good enough”. You can ask if everything is okay though. You can offer help as well.
I have seen the most challenging and painful experiences happen around very strong flocks. Situations that do not need explanation other than to say, they were shocking to watch, and an honor to help them go through. And when the storm passed, that flock stood strong, and still together.
And isn’t that what we all seek in our lives? A bond inside a family/flock unit that helps us navigate this confusing thing we call life?
Unconditional Love is the truth of the core that will yield an immovable force called Your Flock.
The truth is, no matter how long all this takes, this is a forever companionship. The other truth is, if we see each other in that light and help when the forever gets harder, all flocks benefit. Which is simply us, together, giving every parrot, everywhere, a happy home.
I am a Companion Parrot Advocate™, Author, Speaker and Humorist. I’m also Felix’s Mom. Which is to say, as a companion parrot parent, knee deep with 8 parrots in the house, I get it. Through humor and Felix’s Ambassadorship, I share the full experiences and struggles of parrots.
I adore them. I am obsessed with what they bring into a home and how much we can learn from them. I weave science, humor, behavior, husbandry and antedoctal experience into my books, online articles, seminars and videos. This is my passion, and my obsession.
The last 5 weeks have been fantastic days in advocate work. I’ve been invited into 6 flocks with 6 different challenges, 5 different parrots and in 4 different countries. A veritable cornucopia of advocacy needs. Today, all 6 flocks are stable, happy and moving forward with better understanding and flock balances. Today 6 different flocks, in 6 global locations, with 6 different challenges were helped by one simple action. Empathy.
There is no “fixing” problems with our flocks. In reality there are no problems. I’m less and less comfortable with the word fix. It implies something was broke. So you fix it. The reality is, when we find ourselves in a challenging situation with our parrot we have ceased to empathize with their context and moment. We’d rather just say, “I just want him to stop…” and get on with our day.
Empathy is scary. For humans it can be unnerving because you have to literally allow yourself to honestly take in what another is feeling, experiencing and understanding. You have to make yourself vulnerable. You have to admit you are not the only one in the room, nor are you the most important. When practicing empathy a person must set themselves aside and pick up the others burden and perspective. THAT requires admitting their burden is as important as yours. And it may require you setting your burden aside to help with theirs. And we all know how important our stuff can be!
So we don’t sometimes. We’ll admit we don’t understand. We’ll say we are sorry or we “feel you”, or the like. But in the end that’s a reflective move around the requirement of true empathy. It is not easy to see things from another perspective. The reality of it might just shed light on our own truths we are not willing to accept or are too stubborn to admit. Admission requires changes most times.
Empathy is the centerpiece at the table of a Successful Companion Parrot Lifestyle. Empathy allows all else to happen well. Without empathy there is no Art of the FlockCall. There is no communication, trust, and companionship. My first question to every email inquiry is simply, what do you think your parrot wants? We all want our birds to step up, poop appropriately, not bite, not “scream”, eat well, and not eat the furniture. But what does our parrot want when they are not cooperating with our “wants”? Because that moment of challenge is simply two wants happening at the same time. We are totally aware of what we want, but we aren’t giving too much thought about what our companions are wanting. A screaming parrot wants an answer. A parrot that won’t step up wants assurances. A bird that prefers junk foods is no different than any other creature that has tasted their version of junk food.
Empathy is required for our parrots and for our flock in general including the humans in the room. I tell every one that has gotten bit, do not take it personal. Because it isn’t. I suggest families struggling with multiple personalities and opinions on the companion in question sit down and admit what each person is wanting from this companion parrot. Because knowing what every one really wants, and then looking at each want as it is brought to that companion parrot illuminates the real issues at hand, for both sides.
The Art of the FlockCall is centralized around empathy, and we build from there. Because seeing the other guy’s point of view is the solution. Balance requires empathy because there are two sides to every story and all kinds of ways for that story to lose itself in a cloud of misunderstanding.
The Art of the FlockCall starts from the viewpoint of a companion parrot. They did not ask to be inside the human dynamic, so they get first dibs.
An unexpected bond between damaged birds and traumatized
veterans could reveal surprising insights into animal intelligence.
By CHARLES SIEBERTJAN. 28, 2016
Nearly 30 years ago, Lilly Love lost her way. She had just completed her five-year tour of duty as an Alaska-based Coast Guard helicopter rescue swimmer, one of an elite team of specialists who are lowered into rough, frigid seas to save foundering fishermen working in dangerous conditions. The day after she left active service, the helicopter she had flown in for the previous three years crashed in severe weather into the side of a mountain, killing six of her former crewmates. Devastated by the loss and overcome with guilt, Love chose as her penance to become one of the very fishermen she spent much of her time in the Coast Guard rescuing. In less than a year on the job, she nearly drowned twice after being dragged overboard in high seas by the hooks of heavy fishing lines.
Love would not formally receive a diagnosis of severe post-traumatic stress disorder for another 15 years. In that time, she was married and divorced three times, came out as transgender and retreated periodically to Yelapa, Mexico, where she lived in an isolated cabin accessible only by water. She eventually ended up living on a boat in a Los Angeles marina, drinking heavily and taking an array of psychotropic drugs that doctors at the West Los Angeles Veterans Administration Medical Center began to prescribe with increasing frequency as Love proved resistant to traditional treatments like counseling and group therapy. One night, after her fifth stay in the center’s psych ward, she crashed her boat into a sea wall. Finally, in 2006, she was in the veterans’ garden and happened to catch sight of the parrots being housed in an unusual facility that opened a year earlier on the grounds of the center.
‘‘This place is why I’m still here,’’ Love, now 54, told me one day last summer as I watched her undergo one of her daily therapy sessions at the facility, known as Serenity Park, a name that would seem an utter anomaly to anyone who has ever been within 200 yards of the place.
Inside one mesh-draped enclosure, Julius, a foot-high peach-white Moluccan cockatoo with a pink-feathered headdress, was madly pacing, muttering in the native tongue of the Korean woman who, along with her recently deceased husband, had owned him. Next door, a nearly three-foot-tall blue-and-gold macaw named Bacardi, abandoned by a truck driver who was spending too much time on the road, kept calling out for someone named Muffin, before abruptly rising up and knocking over his tray of food to surrounding squawks of delight. Across the way, Pinky, a Goffin’s cockatoo, the castoff of a bitter custody battle between his original female owner and the husband who threatened to spite her by cutting off her beloved pet’s wings, was mimicking a blue jay’s high-pitched power-saw plaint. More screams rang out and then, in the ensuing silences, random snippets of past conversations: ‘‘Hey, sweetheart!’’ ‘‘Whatever.’’ ‘‘Oh, well.’’ ‘‘Whoa! C’mon man!’’ Soon, from a far corner, came the whistling, slow and haunted, of the theme from ‘‘Bridge on the River Kwai.’’
‘‘They had me loaded up on so many kinds of medications, I was seeing little green men and spiders jumping out of trees,’’ Love continued, as a six-inch-tall female caique parrot from the Amazon Basin named Cashew dutifully paced across her shoulders. Back and forth she went, from one side to the other, in determined, near- circular waddles.
For the next 10 minutes, Love, her eyes closed, her arms still at her sides, continued to engage in one of the many daily duets she does with each one of Serenity Park’s winged residents, listing her shoulders up and down like a gently rocking ship, Cashew’s slow, feather-light paddings all the while putting Love further at ease. Now and again, Cashew would pause to give a gentle beak-brush of Love’s neck and ear, and then crane her head upward toward Love’s mouth to receive a couple of kisses. She made a few more passes, back and forth, then abruptly climbed atop Love’s head. Smiling broadly, Love let her loll around up there on her back for a time, Cashew using the same upward scooping wing flaps that caiques employ to bathe on wet rain-forest leaves.
In the wild, caiques, diminutive dollops of luminous yellow, white and deep blue-green, fly in huge, tightly knit flocks whose collective wing feathers make a singular whirring sound above the rain-forest canopy. Cashew, however, for reasons unknown, had her wings overclipped by her former owner, who had bought her as a pet and then abandoned her. So each day now, Love helps her learn how to take to the air again.
The flight lessons are usually administered at the end of Love’s daily rounds. Each morning at dawn, she arrives at Serenity Park from her boat at the marina. For the next four to five hours, she, like the six other veterans in the work-therapy program there, brings food and water to the parrots, cleans their cages and nuzzles and coos and talks and squawks with them. Love, by far the most animated of the veterans that I met at the park, flits from enclosure to enclosure, miming each bird’s movements, mimicking their individual voices and attitudes and, as with Cashew, tries to restore what was taken from them.
She had only to say her student’s name once that day and Cashew was upright in Love’s right palm, a knowing head tilt signaling her readiness. Love set Cashew on a nearby perch and with the thumb and forefinger of both hands took hold of each wing by the tip and moved them up and down a few times as though priming a pump. She then extended an index finger, held Cashew briefly aloft and with a quick thrust upward let her fall free. Some frantic flailing quickly morphed into firmer flaps, Cashew’s wings finally gathering just enough air for her to gain the netting on the far side of her large mesh home. ‘‘You see,’’ Love said, beaming. ‘‘She can actually go a little distance.’’
Taking hold of Cashew once again, she cupped her against her cheek. ‘‘Their spirit gives me the will to get up and do it another day. They’re all victims here. Kind of like what the veterans have been through, in a way.’’ Love lowered her hands and watched Cashew roll over once more on her back, a play position known as wrestling that is peculiar to caiques. ‘‘They don’t belong in captivity,’’ Love said, rubbing Cashew’s white breast feathers. ‘‘But they have a real survivor’s mentality. These forgotten great beams of light that have been pushed aside and marginalized. I see the trauma, the mutual trauma that I suffered and that these birds have suffered, and my heart just wants to go out and nurture and feed and take care of them, and doing that helps me deal with my trauma. All without words.’’
Abandoned pet parrots are twice-traumatized beings: denied first their natural will to flock and then the company of the humans who owned them. In the wild, parrots ply the air, mostly, in the same way whales do the sea: together and intricately. Longtime pairs fly wing to wing within extended, close-knit social groupings in which individual members, scientists have recently discovered, each have unique identifiable calls, like human names. Parrots learn to speak them soon after birth, during a transitional period of vocalizing equivalent to human baby babbling known as ‘‘subsong,’’ in order to better communicate with members of their own flocks and with other flocks. This, it turns out, is the root of that vaunted gift for mimicry, which, along with their striking plumages and beguilingly fixed, wide-eyed stares, has long induced us to keep parrots — neuronally hard-wired flock animals with up to 60-to-70-year life spans and the cognitive capacities of 4-to-5-year-old children — all to ourselves in a parlor cage: a broken flight of human fancy; a keening kidnapee.
There were 34 parrots at Serenity Park when I was there last summer — representing a range of the more than 350 species in the psittaciformes order — a majority of them abandoned and now deeply traumatized former pets that had outlived either their owners or their owners’ patience. A parrot separated from its flock will flock fully and fiercely to the attentions and affections of its new human keeper. And when that individual, for whatever reason, fails to uphold his or her end of such an inherently exclusive relationship, the effects are devastating.
Up and down the aviary-lined corridor of Serenity Park are the winged wreckages of such broken bonds. On and on they go: the ceaseless pacing and rocking and screaming, the corner-cowering, self-plucking and broken-record remembrances. And yet at Serenity Park, the very behaviors that once would have further codified our parrot caricatures — ‘‘birdbrained,’’ ‘‘mindless mimicry,’’ ‘‘mere parroting’’ and so on — are recognized as classic symptoms of the same form of complex post-traumatic stress disorder afflicting the patients in the Veterans Administration Medical Center. They’re also being seized upon as a source of mutual healing for some of the most psychologically scarred members of both species.
‘‘The problem with parrots is that they’re so intensely attuned,’’ Lorin Lindner, the psychologist who founded Serenity Park, told me one afternoon as we stood watching Julius pace back and forth, speaking in Korean. ‘‘Parrots have so many social neurons. Their brain is filled with the capacity to mirror their flock. It’s so crucial for survival to be able to know what the flock is doing, to know what the danger signs are, when they have to get together, when night is falling and they are called to roost. They’re so attuned to being socially responsive that they can easily transfer that to us. They have the ability to connect, to feel this closeness with another being, another species.’’
Listening to Julius that day reminded me of a story I read not long ago in the journal Current Biology about a 22-year-old male Asian elephant named Koshik that resides at the Everland Zoo in Yongin, South Korea. Separated from the two female Asian elephants he was raised with in captivity, Koshik lived alone at Everland for seven years, a period during which he construed a way of speaking perfectly intelligible Korean words by sticking his trunk in his mouth and then using his tongue to shape his own plosive trumpetings into the language of the zoo’s workers and local visitors. Such ‘‘vocal learning,’’ the researchers who wrote the paper concluded, isn’t an attempt to directly communicate with us so much as it is a way for a highly social species like the elephant ‘‘to cement social bonds’’ with the only other species available.
It’s one of those unlikely natural outcomes of the so-called anthropocene, the first epoch to be named after us: the prolonged confinement of intelligent and social creatures, compelling them to speak the language of their keepers. And now, in yet another unlikely occurrence, parrots, among the oldest victims of human acquisitiveness and vainglory, have become some of the most empathic readers of our troubled minds. Their deep need to connect is drawing the most severely wounded and isolated PTSD sufferers out of themselves. In an extraordinary example of symbiosis, two entirely different outcasts of human aggression — war and entrapment — are somehow helping each other to find their way again.
Lindner, a 59-year-old native of Queens, N.Y., knew little about parrots when she first came to Los Angeles in 1976 to finish college and go to grad school in behavioral sciences at U.C.L.A. Then one day in 1987, a week before Christmas, she received a call from a friend who knew of her deep affection and affinity for animals. ‘‘He was looking for someone to take this female parrot he heard about named Sammy,’’ Lindner recalled. ‘‘She was living alone in a Beverly Hills mansion. The owner had put the house up for sale and decided to leave Sammy behind. The bird matched the place’s décor, and he thought the new owners might like that. He was sending his driver over once a week to feed her. When I went to get her, the feces in her cage were piled up in a pyramid that reached her perch.’’
The following year, Lindner started a private practice in Westwood and began to do pro bono work with the increasing number of homeless veterans she encountered in the community, many of them living at that time in encampments under the nearby 405 freeway while awaiting appointments at the West Los Angeles V.A. medical center. Overwhelmed by their stories, she began devoting herself full time to veterans, eventually enlisting the backing of the state to head a nonprofit homeless-veteran-rehabilitation program, known as New Directions, at a residential treatment center.
Spending more and more time at work, Lindner soon decided to take in another orphaned cockatoo named Mango as a ‘‘flock mate’’ for Sammy. Before long, she was tending to both New Directions, which was relocated in 1997 to a newly refurbished building on the grounds of the V.A. center, and a sanctuary for homeless parrots that she started that same year with a friend on a four-acre plot an hour-and-a-half drive north in Ojai. One morning, near the end of 1997, Lindner found herself leading yet another veterans’ group-therapy session that was getting nowhere.
‘‘The guys are sitting around, all stoic, arms crossed, not saying anything,’’ she recalled. ‘‘They’d been like that for a number of weeks. So for a change, I took them up to Ojai to help build some new aviaries there. All of the sudden these same tight-lipped guys are cuddling up to the parrots and talking away with them.’’
Lindner was soon repeating the same exercise with other veterans. The transformations she saw in both species were so pronounced that she promptly set about persuading the V.A. to allot her the grounds of an old outdoor basketball court just down the hill from the medical center so she could move the birds from her Ojai sanctuary and start a work-therapy program there. (Veterans are paid a stipend to work in the sanctuary; some, like Love, volunteer their time.) She began with two 25-foot-high aviaries; there are now nearly two dozen. Some hold as many as three or four birds, like Kiki, Phoebe and Dino (a.k.a. the Three Stooges), a now inseparable troika of umbrella cockatoos who spend their days cuddling and grooming one another. Others contain just one bonded pair like Mandy and Kookie, a female and male eclectus parrot couple, a species native to the Solomon Islands, or Jester and Tango, one Harlequin and one green-wing macaw, who never leave each other’s side. And then there are the quarters of the inveterate loners, birds still caught somewhere between their inherent, wild selves and their captive ones: Cashew, Bacardi or Julius, who is afraid of other parrots because, as Lindner explained, ‘‘he doesn’t think he is one.’’
As I stood talking that day with Lindner, who is warm and effusive, with long blond hair and bangs, I watched Jim Minick, a former Navy helicopter-squadron member who did three tours of duty overseas and suffered severe upper-body injuries in a fall from his chopper, get his fingernails cleaned by Bacardi, the blue-and-gold macaw. In another enclosure, Jason Martinez, a wheelchair-bound Army veteran, sat alongside Molly, an African gray, resting on her perch, the two of them just staring at each other.
Love approached. She was holding an elderly Goffin’s cockatoo named Bobbi, a bird kept most of her life by her owner in a kitchen drawer. She looked like a tiny plucked blue chicken, her only remaining plumage some straggly wing and tail feathers and a frayed skull cap of the ones she couldn’t reach with her beak to mutilate. Love held Bobbi aloft on her index finger and then went dashing down the path between the compound’s two rows of aviaries, shouting, ‘‘Fly, Bobbi, fly,’’ giving her fruitlessly flapping charge at least the semblance of flight.
‘‘You can look in their eyes,’’ Love said, returning with Bobbi, ‘‘any of these parrots’ eyes, and I myself see a soul. I see a light in there. And when they look at you, they see right into your soul. Look around. They’re all watching. They notice everything. It’s intense.’’
I turned to take in a multitiered array of stares, feeling at once beheld and uplifted by creatures a fraction of my weight. I couldn’t place it at first, the slow-swiveling sideswipe of their gazes, the way they’ll dip their heads below their own bodies and then crane smoothly upward, like a movie camera pulling focus. And then it came to me: They reminded me of those C.G.I. velociraptors in films, except that the scales have turned to feathers and the stunted forelimbs to vibrant wings. Time, all at once, lurched wildly backward and ahead, depositing me right back where I’d been, in that moment, and yet deeper and more present.
‘‘God is a parrot,’’ Love said. ‘‘I know that now. God supposedly interprets and mimics what we do on earth, right? Is a reflection of us? So I believe God, if she exists, must be a parrot.’’
Animal-assisted therapy is hardly a novel prescription, having been employed at least since the 18th century, when the York Retreat for the mentally ill opened in England in 1796 and began allowing patients to roam the outside grounds among farm animals. At his office in Vienna, Sigmund Freud regularly had his chow Jofi on hand during psychoanalysis sessions to reassure and relax his patients, allowing them to open up more readily. The U.S. military used dogs as early as 1919 as a therapeutic aid in the treatment of psychiatric patients at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital in Washington. Still, what distinguishes the mutually assuaging bond that the veterans and parrots are forming at Serenity Park is the intelligence — at once different from ours and yet recognizable — of the nonhuman part of the equation.
There is abundant evidence now that parrots possess cognitive capacities and sensibilities remarkably similar to our own. Alex, the now-deceased African gray parrot studied for years by his longtime companion, Dr. Irene Pepperberg, a psychology professor, is regularly held up as the paragon of parrot intelligence. His cognitive skills tested as high as those of a 5-year-old child. He mastered more than 100 words, grasped abstract concepts like absence and presence (Alex excelled at the shell game) and often gave orders to and toyed with the language of researchers who studied him, purposely giving them the wrong answers to their questions to alleviate his own boredom. Alex was also given to demonstrating what we would characterize in ourselves as ‘‘hurt feelings.’’ When Pepperberg returned to Alex one morning after a three-week absence, he turned his back on her in his cage and commanded, ‘‘Come here!’’
Stories like these are, in fact, legion among those who keep and work with parrots. Dr. Patricia Anderson, an anthropologist at Western Illinois University, told me that her expertise in anthrozoology, the study of human-animal relations, is daily tested by her own cadre of adopted, orphaned parrots, including the first bird she decided to take in nearly 30 years ago, a Quaker, or monk, parrot named Otis.
‘‘He was so bright,’’ Anderson told me. ‘‘I taught him to say ‘thank you.’ Very anthropocentric of me, I know, but he generalized it appropriately to anything I ever did for him. He never said it randomly. He only said it when I did something for him, so it appeared to have meaning to him. There appeared to be some cognition going on, and this totally blew my mind.’’ Anderson read extensively about parrots and learned that anytime she left, she should say, ‘‘I’ll be right back.’’ ‘‘I started saying that, and then whenever I began to put my shoes on in the morning to get ready to go to work, he’d say: ‘Right back? Right back?’ ’’
Though the avian cerebrum possesses only the tiniest nub of the structures associated with mammalian intelligence, recent studies of crows and parrots have revealed that birds think and learn using an entirely different part of their brains, a kind of avian neocortex known as the medio-rostral neostriatum/hyperstriatum ventrale. In both parrots and crows, in fact, the ratio of brain to body size is similar to that of the higher primates, an encephalization quotient that yields in both species not only the usual indications of cognitive sophistication like problem-solving and tool use but also two aspects of intelligence long thought to be exclusively human: episodic memory and theory of mind, the ability to attribute mental states, like intention, desire and awareness, to yourself and to others.
Nature, in other words, in a stunning example of parallel or convergent evolution, found an entirely other and far earlier path to complex cognition: an alien intelligence that not only links directly back to minds we’ve long believed to be forever lost to us, like the dinosaurs’, but that can also be wounded, under duress, in the same ways our minds can. In one recent psychiatric study conducted at Midwest Avian Adoption and Rescue Services, a parrot sanctuary and rehabilitation facility in Minnesota, a captive-bred male umbrella cockatoo who had been ‘‘exposed to multiple caregivers who were themselves highly unstable (e.g. domestic violence, substance abuse . . . addiction)’’ was given a diagnosis of complex PTSD. ‘‘When examined through the lens of complex PTSD,’’ Dr. Gay Bradshaw, a psychologist and ecologist and an author of the study, wrote, ‘‘the symptoms of many caged parrots are almost indistinguishable from those of human P.O.W.s and concentration-camp survivors.’’ She added that severely traumatized cockatoos ‘‘commonly exhibit rapid pacing in cage, distress calls, screams, self-mutilation, aggression in response to . . . physical contact, nightmares . . . insomnia.’’
Veterans, of course, share similar psychological scarring, but whenever I asked any of them how it is that the parrots succeed in connecting where human therapists and fellow group-therapy members can’t, the answer seemed to lie precisely in the fact that parrots are alien intelligences: parallel, analogously wounded minds that know and feel pain deeply and yet at a level liberatingly beyond the prescriptive confines of human language and prejudices.
‘‘They look at you, and they don’t judge,’’ Jim Minick, the badly injured helicopter-squad member, told me. ‘‘The parrots look at you, and it’s all face value. It’s pure.’’
One afternoon at the sanctuary, I went up the hill to the V.A. hospital to talk with Leslie Martin. A clinical social worker and a director at the center’s trauma-recovery services, she often recommends parrot therapy for patients, including those who are ‘‘treatment resistant,’’ like Lilly Love. I asked Martin if the primordial nature of the parrot’s intelligence might have a particular effect on certain veterans. ‘‘Everyone knows these animals are very sensitive, like children,’’ she said. ‘‘The pure, primitive nature of their feelings, their emotions, activates your primitive brain. And then when they speak to you, it’s a real high.’’
Previous studies have shown that effective trauma therapies can help the brain construct neuronal bypasses around the scarred areas of a traumatized brain. ‘‘They’re only just starting to do research on this now, but there are phenomena that are operating in the prefrontal cortex,’’ Martin said. ‘‘There are some physiological and chemical changes happening that are real, that are measurable.’’ Lindner says she would like to one day enlist researchers to study the brain science behind the efficacy of parrot therapy and whether it is the parrots themselves that are helping the veterans or whether there are other variables at work. For now, however, she uses as her measure the nearby veterans’ garden just across from Serenity Park. For years, afflicted veterans were brought to work in the garden as a way of treating their trauma, essentially working in the same tranquil setting as the veterans at Serenity Park, the one obvious difference, of course, being the parrots. Lindner said she thinks that, using conventional measures of improvement for veterans suffering trauma — the ability to stay clean and sober; keeping up with their case-manager appointments; reuniting with family; finding gainful employment, and so on — the veterans who have been working with the parrots are doing better than those who spend time working at the garden.
‘‘There’s definitely something different going on at this place,’’ Lindner said. ‘‘We know that what’s preserved across species, all vertebrates truthfully, is the ability to feel compassion. As for birds and humans, we both have sympathetic nervous responses. We react the same way to trauma on the physiological level and in terms of the reparative nature of compassion and empathy. That’s what is doing the healing. That’s what is bringing the broken halves together. We don’t know what the actual healing factor is, but I believe that it has to do with mental mirroring. That the parrots get what the veterans are going through and, of course, the veterans get them, too, because, hey, they are all pretty much traumatized birds around here.’’
One afternoon at Serenity Park, a white pickup truck roared to a stop behind the work shed. Lindner emerged from the passenger side with a wooden box containing the ashes of her first parrot, Sammy, who died last March after living with Lindner for 27 years. Sammy was to be buried at the park later that day. The truck was driven by Serenity Park’s manager, Matt Simmons, a tautly built, square-jawed 43-year-old, who came to the sanctuary in 2006 after making little progress as a patient in traditional group therapy at the V.A. When his therapist first instructed him to visit the aviary down the hill, Simmons thought he was going to be ‘‘dealing with chickens,’’ he later told me. What he found instead was himself, through the eyes of the park’s winged trauma victims. He began devoting his days to caring for the parrots, forming attachments that gradually drew him out of his sense of isolation and mistrust and allowed him, in turn, to start connecting with people as well. He and Lindner grew increasingly close, and in 2009 they were married at the sanctuary. Sammy was flower girl. Lindner held a bridal bouquet made of fallen parrot feathers.
Simmons built his first computer in grade school. He joined the peacetime Navy right out of high school, he told me, to spite his father, who wanted him to go straight to college and then law school. He scored so high on his recruitment aptitude tests that the Navy wanted to assign him to a nuclear submarine. Simmons managed, instead, to secure what he believed would be a relatively easy tour as a yeoman — essentially an administrative and clerical position — on an aircraft carrier, until that ship made a sudden turn in early 1991.
The PTSD stemming from his time in the Navy wasn’t formally diagnosed for another two years. A friend suggested that he visit the West Los Angeles V.A. for help. Simmons told me that until then, he had no idea that what he was experiencing had to do with his military service. The regimen of new drugs that were prescribed by a psychiatrist there proved ineffective, and he grew increasingly closed off in therapy sessions that were dominated at that time by long-ignored Vietnam veterans with issues entirely different from those associated with the Gulf War. ‘‘I told my therapist this,’’ Simmons said, ‘‘and he basically said that if I didn’t go down and help out at the sanctuary, he was going to stop treating me.’’
Simmons instantly connected with the yellow-headed Amazon, Joey, who had adopted and raised from infancy two other birds at the sanctuary — a pair of female lilac-crowned Amazon parrots that had fallen from their nest — regurgitating his own food to feed them. For a male parrot to raise two females from another species is a rare display of altruism, Lindner told me, a behavior long thought to be exclusive to humans and other primates.
‘‘Joey came to Serenity Park around the same time I did,’’ Simmons told me. ‘‘That’s the first thing we had in common. I had learned that yellow-headed Amazons are not that friendly, so when Joey made an effort to befriend me, that meant even more. We were different species, but we got each other. I was shy, burned by humans, isolated, angry. Joey had what seemed to me the same attitude. So we bonded. He let me touch him. Only me.’’
Within weeks of his arrival at Serenity Park, Lindner told me, Simmons had pretty much taken over the place. He was up at 3 a.m. every day in the New Directions kitchen, preparing breakfast for all the veterans. Then he came down to the sanctuary and worked there until 6 in the evening, clearing out the compound, building new aviaries and expanding the existing ones.
When I asked Simmons to describe what happens to him when he is with a parrot, he instantly went into one of his signature high-speed soliloquies. ‘‘Here we go,’’ he said. ‘‘Write it down. There are things I have seen that will never leave me. There’s this huge sack of guilt and shame and pain that I carry with me, and I got it when I was 18 years old in Bahrain. Now, when I’m with a parrot, it’s not a total time-change thing, but I do have to act like a 12-year-old boy again. And here’s why. Because parrots are not domesticated animals. They haven’t been bred for hundreds of years to be at my feet.’’ Simmons paused for a sip of Coke, the third one of the night. ‘‘So in order to have a relationship with a parrot, that parrot has to select me. In order for that to happen, that parrot has to be comfortable. I have to come in open and quiet and calm. Much like that 12-year-old boy that met the mean dog next door and never had a problem. Much like that 12-year-old boy that went hiking and saw a mountain lion. I’m acting like the 12-year-old boy again around the parrots, and what that does is help me confront my trauma rather than carry it around. Because now I’m with a psychiatrist, and I’m talking about how this bird didn’t feel so good today and wasn’t very comfortable and was kind of hiding in the back of the cage, and the psychiatrist goes, ‘Hmm, you’re starting to talk about emotions.’ I’m talking about how the bird was feeling, but I’m also transferring my own emotions. So being with the parrots allows me to take that third-person look at my own trauma, which you can never do when you’re whacked out on Vicodin and Budweiser and living under a cement highway bridge.’’
We often think of empathy as a skill rather than the long-ago, neuronally ingrained bioevolutionary tool for survival that it actually is: the ability to inhabit the feelings of fellow beings (the word empathy derives from the Greek en, which means ‘‘in,’’ and pathos, meaning ‘‘suffering’’ or ‘‘experience’’); the ability to feel, for example, their fear over a threat; or thrill over a newly found food source; or sorrow over a loss, which has as much to do with the fabric of a community as any other. Empathy, in this sense, can be thought of as the source of all emotion, the one without which the others would have no register.
The more time I spent at Serenity Park last summer, the more I came to think in terms of the expansive anatomy of empathy. And not just the shared neuronal circuitry that has now been mapped across species, from us to the other primates to elephants and whales and, we now know, to creatures with entirely different, nonmammalian brains, like crows and parrots. I thought, as well, of the extraordinary capacity conferred by that circuitry to recognize and respond to the specific infirmities, both psychic and physical (although those are essentially one and the same) of another species.
I got a sense early on at the park of which parrots and veterans seemed most drawn to one another. The way, for example, Simmons said that the lilac-crowned Amazon, Dagwood, came to life around Jim Minick, the former Navy helicopter crewman. But I learned only later about the true depth of such bonds.
‘‘You know, Jim does a great job of hiding how wounded he was,’’ Simmons told me. ‘‘He has tattoos all over the elbow he can’t use anymore, and he won’t talk about it, but at one point he was sitting on the edge of the bed with a shotgun in his mouth and tears rolling down his face. On that same night, he drove his car into a tree, drunk out of his mind. So he comes to Serenity Park, and Jim doesn’t know the history of any of the birds, and which bird loved him at first? Dagwood, the one with a screwed-up wing and a crooked beak. There’s no way to explain it.’’
Jason Martinez, who suffered traumatic brain injuries parachuting into Afghanistan and now suffers from epileptic seizures, was immediately drawn to Molly, an African gray, the only parrot at Serenity Park, he learned only later, with epilepsy. And then there were the daily cheek-to-cheek murmurings between the bedraggled, drawer-bound Goffin’s cockatoo, Bobbi, and a blond 21-year-old ex-Marine named Josh Lozon.
‘‘Let’s talk about Josh,’’ Simmons said. ‘‘A good-looking guy with curly hair. He’s a little scary. He’s so broken, all of his wounds are still hidden. Who gets along with him best? Bobbi, mostly naked, bleeding from her remaining feathers. A bird who looks like a damn pterodactyl that went through a buzz saw.’’
Of all the veterans I encountered at the sanctuary, Lozon was by far the most skittish. The one time I was able to chat with him at length was when I found him early one morning atop an elevated wooden porch, one flight above a work shed, scrubbing the bars of an empty bird cage with a brush. My decision to head up the narrow steps that lead to it effectively trapped him up there.
He joined the Marines, he said, because he ‘‘wanted to hurt somebody.’’ He told me he received an exceptional score on his recruitment aptitude test, which landed him an office job working with computers, a post suited to his intellectual abilities but not his disposition. Sent to the V.A. for evaluation after frequent episodes of insubordination and erratic behavior, he was prescribed mood stabilizers and antipsychotics, neither of which, he sheepishly confided, he was presently taking, thanks to Serenity Park.
He was not able to put into words what exactly went on between him and the parrots. All he kept saying was, ‘‘It’s something about the cages.’’ Feeling his growing discomfort, I descended the stairs. Back on the ground, I looked up at Lozon, who was peacefully cooing and chirping back and forth with Koko, the Australian Adelaide rosella. He suddenly looked down at me. ‘‘They’re in these cages and helpless,’’ Lozon said, ‘‘and it’s not their fault.’’ He paused, and I started away. ‘‘But for me,’’ he continued, ‘‘I think it’s also that when I’m alone with them in those cages, I feel I don’t have to conform to what everyone expects of me. I’m free to be an animal again.’’
In the late afternoon on my last day at the sanctuary, I seemed to be the only one around. I passed Koko in his cage, sounding his particular strains of the park’s ongoing symphony of stranded human speech. I thought then of the numerous anecdotes people have told of wild-parrot flocks learning, via ‘‘cultural transmission,’’ to speak the human words taught to them by reintegrated former pets. In the parks of Sydney, Australia, where there are native wild-parrot flocks, people regularly overhear a ‘‘Hello, darling’’ or ‘‘What’s happening?’’ sounding from the trees above. The early German naturalist explorer Alexander von Humboldt wrote of encountering, during his travels in South America toward the close of the 18th century, a parrot that was the last living repository of the language of the extinct Atures Indian tribe.
All alone now among the sanctuary’s parrots, I got a sudden glimpse of a possible future. One long beyond us and our traumas. A world of winged dinosaurs, soaring and chatting back and forth, their different local dialects inflected here and there with the occasional broken shards of a long lost one: ‘‘Hey, sweetheart.’’ ‘‘Whoa! C’mon man!’’ ‘‘Whatever!’’
Nearing Serenity Park’s exit, I decided to turn back and step inside Cashew’s quarters for a moment. I had only to nestle close to her perch and she immediately hopped on my back. Crisscrossing my shoulders as I had watched her do with Lilly Love, she stopped at one point for what I assumed would be the parrot equivalent of a kiss. Instead, she began to clean my teeth: her beak lightly tapping against my enamel, the faint vibrations strangely soothing. Immediately afterward, she took a brief nap in my shirt’s left breast pocket — it felt as if I’d grown another heart — then re-emerged and crawled to the top of my head. She strolled about there for a time before plucking out one of her own deep blue-green feathers and then descending to gently place it on my left shoulder. I have it still.
I know I am not saying anything that those of us who live the reality of rescue isn’t thinking and doesn’t know. It is our reality, every single day.
We are living a crisis. I have told any number of people over the last few weeks, I feel like that little Dutch boy. I have all 10 fingers plugging holes in the Dike and it is still leaking.
We are experiencing a hemorrhage of birds. They are pouring out of homes, closets, basements, cellars, garages, carports, you name it.
They are outliving owners. They are wearing out their welcome. They are growing up from those adorable little snuggly, cuddly baby birds that were so coveted and turning into large, confused, angry creatures that don’t understand what their place in the world is.
The want to do what Nature is telling them. They live in this grey zone. They are birds who do not know they are birds.
All they have ever known is human contact and interaction. Their confusion grows and builds as does their anger and frustration. One day it boils over and they begin to lash out. They begin to be unpredictable and unmanageable. It is always the Cockatoos…..How many of us have said that?
These are not birds that would prosper and flourish in a sanctuary setting. They have no clue about living in outdoor flights. They have lived their whole life in a home, with a family, their “flocks.” Now their flock is afraid of them so interaction stops. Out of cage time stops. The people who loved them, likely still do love them, at at a loss of how to safely handle them. They are afraid and rightfully so.
Rescues are being flooded with them. Rescues are turning them away because we are full to bursting. People are hardly lining up to adopt an aggressive, unpredictable Cockatoo.
So what are the answers?
I am not saying I have them. I am thinking, crying, soul searching. These are the ones who are making my heart bleed. What are we going to do?
I dream of a way that I can do more. I dream of a way to make a place for THESE guys.
How to start? I don’t know yet. I have some ideas rolling through my head. They are still swirling but I will keep on until they meld into a coherent and solid plan.
All the while more of these babies are being pumped out. I see the ads from the brokers and the breeders and the bird fairs. Those who choose to pretend there isn’t a crisis. Those who stand to gain from trying to convince you how wonderful your life will be if you get a baby Cockatoo. Where will they be 10-15 years from now when you have a psychotic male Umbrella trying to dismember you when you try to change their bowls or clean their cages? Where are they when you neighbors 3 blocks away are calling the police because your Mollucan is making their windows shake? Where are they when he has plucked all of his feathers and opened up his chest in trying to find a way to channel the pain and turmoil that he feels. Where are they as he sits in his cage like a ghost of a living creature so turned inside of himself that he has given up in his spirit?
I will not give up on them. Captivity is what they know. We can all continue to gnash about how they aren’t suited to captivity. Too late, we already ruined that for them. Though they are creatures of the wild we have taken that from them. We have stolen their survival instincts. We have stolen their birthright and they can’t have it back. What they know is to depend on us. Another way we have let the down.
Let’s stop preaching about how they are wild animals that don’t belong in captivity….That line of thinking isn’t valid for them. What we have to start doing is stepping up with answers. We have to step up with support for those that are carrying this burden. We have to work towards answers and solutions.
I hear a lot of blah, blah, blah from a lot of people. DO SOMETHING, DO ANYTHING. HELP someone who IS doing something.
Be the SOMEBODY in “Somebody should do something.”