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.
It was a warm and sunny afternoon, a lovely breeze blew through open windows and the tinkling of wind chimes faintly played their lullaby. Her little eyes began to shut as the warm summer air ruffled her feathers ever so slightly. All the sounds of her home began to fade as she drifted into a little summer nap. She was so warm and cozy and began to feel a memory of something….maybe from long ago. Maybe this was just another dream or a memory that was not hers. It came from a place so very far away and while it seemed so familiar, she knew she had never seen this place before. The air had such wonderful aromas and she could almost remember tasting the tropical plants and berries that she saw. She watched as many birds were playing in a nearby pool of water, while others seem to play a game of tag flying up and down and above the trees. It was so beautiful here and the birds flew so high, there were no ceilings to stop them or doors too keep them in. She had never flown so high before herself, and that thought of doing so, made her a little frightened. How would they get back down, who would be there to help them. But as she watched these other birds flying, she saw how very happy they were, they had no fear as they flew and manipulated their way between the trees, it was as though it was something they had done all their lives.
She began to wonder where the humans were, Could it be that these birds were all by themselves. There were no cages for them to go back into. There were no food bowls, swings or perches. She became frightened for a minute, who would bring her food and make sure she was safe, how could she survive out here with no humans to care for her in this wild place. As she watched on though, she saw that none of the birds were afraid. She could feel their happiness and that this was their home. They were allowed to live freely and fly about as much as they wanted. That brought on another thought, she wondered who chose? Who decided, who would remain free and who would be in cages? The thought was perplexing and a bit sad. Why had it been decided she would live in a humans home, was she too weak to live in this wonderful place? Was she not like these other birds in some way. The thought only made her more sad and confused.
Another little breeze blew through her open window and she wakened from her little sleepy nap. She was once again in her safe home with her loving human, who took such good care of her. She loved this person, they gave her good food and loving little snuggles and scritches. They made sure she was safe and healthy. They gave her everything she needed. However the memory of that other place lingered for a few minutes longer….. what a wonderful place that had been, she wished she could visit there again. She secretly wished she could live in such a place and fly as free and high as all those other birds.
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.
By Lisa Moser on Thursday, June 27, 2013 at 5:48pm
We do know and understand that many of us started out with baby birds. I know I personally had no idea more than 12 years ago that something like parrot rescue existed, much less was needed. We were told that we needed to get a baby bird and finish handfeeding it ourselves so that it would bond to us.
Now in our combined countries we have rescues and sanctuaries filled to overflowing with even waiting lists of birds that the owners no longer are able to or have the desire to continue to have in their homes.
We do understand the beauty and adorable factor of babies. Baby anything’s are endearing to us all.
Those of us who have followed the path of rescue always look beyond that little unfeathered baby face. We look forward into the faces of the many birds that are under our care that were once that sweet baby face you are looking at today.
It makes it nearly impossible to truly feel the joy of seeing yet another clutch of babies that will soon be taken from their parents and passed on to whomever has the cash. A beautiful little face that someday all too soon will be too loud…..or bite…or is messy…..that “we don’t have enough time for….”
Sometimes we may come across as harsh and not understanding……Please understand that we may have just yet heard another horror story of a bird in a closet, or a garage, or left to suffer with a prolapse or a broken bone for days, weeks, months and even years. We may have just come from the vet with another sick bird that will cost many dollars and hours to bring back to a state of health. We may have spent our day looking into that once trusting baby face that is now the face of fear and mistrust because those who he should have been able to depend on were the very ones who made him afraid. We may have just come from watching an elderly owner’s heartbreak of saying goodbye to that beloved pet that they bought at retirement and now their health does not allow them to keep their beloved baby. Then we have to help the bird through the grief of trying to figure out why their beloved human handed them off to a stranger.
I have held preciously loved birds and felt the grief pour off of them because they lost their human who loved them so much, I have cried the tears that the bird itself could not physically shed. I have spent months with a gentle heart and voice assuring a scared bird who would shriek in fear of hand that had once been a weapon, hoping, praying that once day he would see them as an instrument of love and kindness.
I have worried about how to make room for “just one more” and worried about how I was going to pay the vet bill, and get another cage and cover food bills.
I know this is long. It comes from my heart and the heart of all my precious friends who share my pain, tears, joys and worries>
I am sorry if sometimes we don’t have a kinder or gentler way of trying to express to you why we want to educate the plight of which we live daily.
Full disclosure…. I share my home with 6 parrots. But each and every one of those birds is re-homed. At least one is an actual rescue. And as much as I love them, and I do, I would give them up tomorrow if it meant there would be no more birds in captivity. But I’m not stupid or naive…and I know that’s not going to happen. Mankind has been capturing and keeping parrots since time began. But that doesn’t make it right.
If you went to visit your neighbors, and they had a robin or an owl in a cage, you would be horrified. Why then do we not feel the same for these highly intelligent species? A wise man once said that the worst thing that ever happened to parrots was that they evolved with such striking coloration and the ability to mimic human speech. Both of these characteristics make them desirable to us. And rather than watch and appreciate them in the wild, we had to seize them and put them in cages in our homes.
I believe the birds that are bred in captivity need our love and care. But if we are honest with ourselves, we will admit that the thing that makes birds so incredibly special is the thing we immediately take away from them when we breed them in captivity…the ability to soar. Yes, some of us allow our birds to be flighted…but most parrots will never know the joy of gliding on an updraft.
The US has really started to wake up to most animal welfare issues. Puppy mills are slowly dying out. We know that you should fix your dog/cat. We have started to hold owners responsible rather than blaming a specific breed of dog. Trap/Neuter/Return for community cats is becoming more accepted. But when it comes to parrots, we are behind much of the free world. Germany requires specific size cages. Some countries forbid the clipping of wings. And the Netherlands just passed a bill making it illegal to hand raise a baby bird.
Greg Glendell of the UK has been studying parrots in captivity for decades. He was the first one to coin the term “parental deprivation”. What that means is that we are actively abusing birds by taking them from their parents and hand raising them. Every dog owner knows that the longer a puppy stays with their mom the more emotionally healthy they are. And the more intelligent a species, the more it relies on learned behavior. You know your language and social skills because you were reared by your own kind.
When we hand raise a parrot, we are depriving that bird of all the social, emotional and physical benefits of being raised by committed parents. Parrots will often keep a clutch with them through the next clutch. Know why? So they can teach the youngsters how to parent. When you pull a chick from the nest…you aren’t just affecting that bird, but all his future generations.
Breeders will tell you it’s not safe to leave the chicks with the parents. And in many cases it’s not. Because that bird was never parented…he doesn’t have the first clue how to parent himself. It’s OUR fault that is happening.
If you love parrots you should want what is best for them, and without a doubt that is allowing them to know they are parrots. If you ever visit the Parrot Garden, remind me to introduce you to a couple of parent raised Amazons. Because they were allowed to stay with both parents Violet and Claus are extremely confident birds. We do not see any of the problem behaviors we see with human reared birds. No screaming, biting, feather destructive behavior, or over-bonding . The difference in their behavior, curiosity, and demeanor as compared to their hand-raised companions is beyond striking. It drives home the fact that human raised birds are being harmed at the most basic emotional level.
Everyone knows that I love parrots. And I believe the ones that were bred in captivity need our love and care. But if we are moral and honest we will admit that the thing that makes birds so incredibly special is the thing we immediately take away from them when we breed them in captivity…the ability to soar.
WHY ADOPTION MAKES SENSE.
Someday, odds are that your bird will need a new home. Mine
too. Phoenix will actually need several new homes since he
is a very young 13 year-old greenwing macaw. I sure do hope
they’re good ones!
By my standards, Phoenix won’t be a “rescue” either. While I am
his zookeeper, he receives high quality wholesome foods, abundant
activities and a rich social life. He has a stainless cage, playgyms,
an Atom™, a ringstand and a large outdoor aviary. I take
good care of him, and I want to make sure his future caretakers
will do the same, or better. My worst nightmare is that Phoenix
will go from the good life to the bad, and this is a concern for all
long-lived parrots most especially.
Many, many birds lose their good homes because people’s lives change through no fault of their own. We often acquire our parrots without realizing that they will (or should) live decades. Even the smallest parakeet can live to 18 plus years, way longer than many people can care properly for a pet. The term ‘forever home’ is a real misnomer when it comes to most parrots, and we do them a grave disservice when we fail to plan for their futures.
Almost 1,200 parrots have come to the Phoenix Landing Foundation as of August 2008, and the wait list grows longer by the day. By far the number one reason that people relinquish their bird is because they can no longer “provide enough time and attention.” These are not so-called “rescue” parrots; these are birds that simply need a new family.
And how about those rescue birds that come from situations of true abuse or neglect, can they adapt well to a new life? Of course! In fact, these birds often make the best of companions. Parrots are supremely resilient, adapt well to new circumstances, and often thrive best on change. Nature has made them so, with constant variables such as unpredictable food sources and weather, predators, and the hard search for a good nest cavity. Parrots never live alone in the wild. To do so would probably mean death-by-predation; so if a mate is lost there is no dallying to find a new one.
Birds in captivity generally carry these same attributes, adapting well to their new homes, no matter what their past situation involved. Respect is the key. Allowing a bird time to learn trust and feel safe, and recognizing their need for personal space — these are the things that can make a huge difference in developing a positive relationship with any parrot.
First-time parrot owners are sometimes baffled by the numerous decisions necessary to care for their new feathered companion. While they are confident of their ability to care for a dog or cat, they are surprised by the realization that much of their knowledge of pet care simply does not apply to birds. One ready source of help is the observation of nature. After all, Mother Nature kept her winged creatures happy and healthy long before we became birdkeepers.
The observation of nature can make healthcare choices for birds much less confusing for the new caregiver faced with conflicting information. One of the first issues to be decided about the parrot diet is whether or not to feed seeds. At one time, seeds were labeled junk food for birds but a look at the natural habitat of parrots yields an important clue. Mother Nature does provide seeds for many birds, but only a few parrot species depend primarily on seeds or nuts as the mainstay of their diet. Thick-billed parrots, Rhynchopsitta pachyrhynchus, of Mexico live mainly on the seeds of local pine trees (pine nuts) but this is the exception rather than the rule. Seeds are not a complete diet but they do add nutritional value to a varied diet of nutritious foods and most parrots enjoy working for their food by shelling seeds.
While many of us have never visited a tropical rainforest or other wild habitat of parrots, we do have some knowledge of their home in the wild from information garnered from books, magazines and the media. There are many excellent TV nature shows that are filmed in the natural habitat of parrots. With a little imagination and a lot of common sense, we can easily adapt Mother Nature’s way of doing things to enhance our birds’ lives and keep them safe and healthy.
The following questions have been asked by new parrot owners and the answers are based on Mother Nature’s example.
Question: Does my parrot need supplemental vitamins and minerals?
Answer: Mother Nature provides the necessary vitamins and minerals for parrots in the form of whole foods. The diet of wild parrots includes a variety of plant foods, including seeds, nuts, fruits, berries, leaf shoots, buds, stems, sprouts, flowers, pollen, nectar and more. The parrot’s digestive system is designed to extract nutrients from a diet that is high in fiber and low in nutrients, or “nutrient sparse.” Vitamin preparations are exactly the opposite ( low in fiber and “nutrient dense.” Parrots have the digestive tract of an herbivore, and nutrient-dense preparations are over-stimulating to many parrot species. This can cause hyperactive behaviors such as screaming, aggression such as biting, and self-destruction of feathers. At its worst, an extremely enriched parrot diet can cause self-mutilation of skin and flesh. Ignoring nature’s plan in this way can literally place captive parrots in a life-and-death situation.
Question: Are natural food supplements good for my bird?
Answer: Although we cannot provide the exact foods that Mother Nature supplies for our birds in their natural habitat, we can simulate the overall diet by offering a large variety of fruits, vegetables, sprouts, greens, nuts, seeds, and protein foods. It can be argued with some degree of accuracy that much of our food is grown in depleted soil and therefore is lacking in the full complement of nutrients that it should contain. Also, finicky eaters are a problem for parrot owners, and no matter how nutritious and varied our food offerings are, they must be eaten before they can provide nutrition. Parrots can develop nutritional deficiencies in spite of being offered the best of diets if they choose to eat only their favorite foods (not always the best choices) instead of the balanced diet that is offered. In such cases, supplementing our birds’ diet with concentrates of whole foods such as wheat grass powder is a safer and more natural way to provide nutrition than giving vitamin and mineral supplements created in a laboratory.
Other natural food supplements include barley grass powder, carrot powder, beet powder, wheat germ, cranberry juice concentrate, and a favorite of many parrots, fresh fruit and vegetable juices. Giving parrots straight vitamin A can cause problems from overgrown beaks to serious liver damage, but if we offer fresh-squeezed carrot juice, we are giving them a safe and natural beta-carotene cocktail that will be converted by their body into just the right amount of vitamin A. Green supplements like wheat grass or barley grass powder can be sprinkled lightly on a parrot’s soft foods several times a week, but fresh, whole green foods should also be offered daily.
Question: Does my bird need fresh foods every day?
Parrots can survive, and indeed look healthy, for a long time on a substandard diet that is deficient in essential nutrients. Mother Nature has provided her winged creatures with reserve stores from which to draw in times of drought and disaster. However, on a long-term basis, deficiencies take their toll on overall health and appearance. We have much to learn about the effects of fresh, living food on avian health. We know that fresh, living foods are the mainstay of many parrot species. The glossy feather sheen, bright and shiny eyes, and noisy exuberance for life that one observes in wild parrot flocks are testaments to the positive effects of a diet of living foods. It is no wonder that so many caged birds lack the look of vibrant health seen in their wild counterparts when we consider how few parrots are fed greens or sprouts on a daily basis. Our birds should receive at least one green food daily (preferably more), and sprouts are a welcome addition to a caged bird’s diet. Wild parrots consume plants in all stages of growth, from dry or newly sprouted seeds to mature plants, and we would do well to emulate Mother Nature’s plan by “greening up” our companion birds’ menu.
Question: Is it safe to feed greens to my bird even though green foods seem to cause loose droppings?
Answer: When birds consume foods high in water, like greens, they excrete the excess water when they urinate. Watery droppings should not be mistaken for diarrhea. Fresh, moist foods do not cause true diarrhea, but rather a harmless increase in clear, liquid urine output as the bird eliminates the excess water. Loose droppings that are mistaken for diarrhea is an outdated excuse for not feeding the green foods that are natural to the wild parrot’s diet and essential for health. The nutrients most commonly deficient in the parrot diet are those found in abundance in leafy green foods. Greens contain phytochemicals which are substances found in plants that stimulate the immune system and help prevent disease. Fiber is important to the health of parrots and it can be found in generous amounts in green foods. Parrot owners might be surprised to learn that dark leafy greens are far richer in calcium, per calorie, than is cow’s milk. Kale, turnip greens, mustard greens, broccoli, and bok choy are the greens richest in calcium. Darker greens have a higher beta-carotene content than lighter greens, so kale and collards are a good choice of greens for birds. In general, foods of deepest color contain the most nutrition.
Question: Are herbs and spices safe for my bird?
Answer: Not only are most herbs and spices safe, but many can be used as preventive and curative measures. Consult an herbalist or holistic veterinarian before giving your bird any unfamiliar herb. Here are a few of Mother Nature’s finest offerings to keep our birds happy and healthy.
ALOE VERA is known as the medicine plant and is used for the treatment of wounds, burns, bites, cuts, abrasions and rashes. It helps to prevent infection in injured skin and it is an effective topical analgesic. Aloe can be used internally as a powerful detoxifying agent.
CAYENNE is also known as capsicum. It is an overall digestive aid containing Vitamins A, C, B-complex, calcium, phosphorous and iron. It is also anti-inflammatory and helps arthritic conditions. Parrots love the fiery taste of cayenne and will try new and unfamiliar foods, such as sprouts, when you sprinkle this healthful herb on their food.
CHAMOMILE flowers are tiny, daisy-like flowers that are especially helpful to parrots that need a calming influence. Chamomile is one of nature’s safest and mildest sedatives, and it can be offered as flowers, fresh or dried, or as herbal tea to calm birds in stressful situations.
CINNAMON sticks can be used as a “food toy” for parrots. Ground cinnamon can be used on soft foods as a mild anti-fungal treatment for candida and other types of yeast, and aspergillus. Cinnamon also has a mild anti-bacterial effect against strep and staph bacteria. It can be sprinkled on fresh foods in hot weather to help prevent the growth of pathogens on bird food.
DANDELION flowers and greens are nutritious foods as well as liver cleansers. They are useful for restoring health to birds that have been maintained on a diet of processed foods. Used in their natural form as food, it is almost impossible to overdose.
GARLIC is rich in sulfur and potassium, and it kills fungus, bacteria, and intestinal parasites. Fresh garlic cloves can be offered to parrots in moderation. Measured by the drop, Kyolic liquid garlic is often used to treat fungal and bacterial problems of parrots. Garlic can cause anemia in some animals if given for long periods of time, but to date, there is no documented evidence of harm to parrots.
GINGER is an excellent motion sickness remedy for parrots that travel. A few slices of fresh ginger in the carrier can prevent regurgitation during car trips or airline flights in parrots prone to motion sickness.
HERB FLOWERS or the tiny flowering blooms of the following spices are edible and beneficial to the health of parrots: anise, basil, bee balm, chives, coriander (cilantro), dill, fennel, garlic, oregano, rosemary, sage and thyme.
MILK THISTLE seeds contain silymarin, a flavonoid that is effective against liver disorders. Seeds are the most natural form of silymarin, but an alcohol-free extract can be used for specific treatments.
ROSE HIPS are a natural blood purifier and infection fighter. Although parrots manufacture their own vitamin C, the fruit of the rose benefits the immune system. There are many other flowers that can be given to parrots for specific treatment purposes and for enjoyment.
As new parrot owners attempt to learn all the right things to do for their feathered companions, they sometimes are perplexed to discover that even the experts cannot agree on all aspects of bird care. By observing Mother Nature, much knowledge can be gained to provide optimal care and promote avian health and happiness.