Impulse buy became beloved avian companion
Danny-Boy had a vocabulary of 40-plus words and enjoyed beak-to-nose contact with his owner.
View Larger ImageIt was the worst way to get a pet: on impulse. But the sign said, "Baby cockatiels available for good home," and I thought how difficult could a bird be? Figuring he might introduce a spark of life to my quiet condo, I brought home the tiny 6-week-old cockatiel. I didn't even give him a name since he was just a bird
Every morning I greeted him with "Hello, baby," and upon leaving for work, "You be a good birdie."
One day he replied.
What?
I looked at the little bird and he cocked his head and echoed, "Hello, baby. You be a good birdie!"
That's when everything changed. Suddenly, he wasn't just an ornament with a beak, but my Danny-Boy. For the first time, I noticed how alert, lively and spirited he was, how easily he repeated my words, forcing me to be cautious about the verbal bombs I sometimes dropped. This was one bright bird. Soon his vocabulary exceeded 40 words, including phrases most women long to hear:
"Hello, gorgeous. I'm so sorry. I love you! Where have you been? You take the cake!"
I bought him a larger cage, fancy toys, tasty treats. I e-mailed Mickaboo Cockatiel Rescue and learned about cockatiel favorites like carrots, broccoli, bagels, sweet potatoes and kale. I noticed how Danny-Boy went ballistic over hard-boiled eggs and how he made me laugh when he buried his face in his bowl of macaroni and emerged with pasta all over his beak.
And he was attentive despite never being finger-trained. He bit me once, hard, and I never tried again. The result was that he became fearful of my hands and scampered about his cage whenever I tried to pet him. As soon as I withdrew my evil appendage, however, he would immediately return to the cage wall, putting his little face as close to mine as possible so we could touch beak to nose through the bars.
Until recently.
Suddenly there was no "Hi, sweetie pie" or "I'm a good birdie." No wolf whistles or theme from "The Andy Griffith Show." His eyes were tired, his feathers fluffed. Something was wrong. Over the next month I spent hundreds of dollars carting him back and forth to an avian specialist, frantically trying to identify the unknown ailment. The vet observed that Danny-Boy's abdomen appeared swollen, indicating a possible growth, but I remained hopeful. He responded well to antibiotics and for a while returned to his usual chatty self.
Until the day I found him lying on the floor of his cage. When he allowed me to pick him up, I knew the end was near. Cupped in my hands, for the very first time in 15 years Danny-Boy let me stroke his delicate neck. Through my tears I repeated the words he had regaled me with over the years: "Hello, baby. I'm so sorry. I love you." As the light in his eyes faded, the plume of feathers atop his head started going down, almost like the avian equivalent of a waning heart monitor.
When he gasped his final breath, his plume fell flat against his neck and, with a heavy heart, I said goodbye to my beloved companion of 15 years. Danny-Boy may have been adopted on impulse, but through him I learned how much I could love "just a bird."
One day he replied.
What?
I looked at the little bird and he cocked his head and echoed, "Hello, baby. You be a good birdie!"
That's when everything changed. Suddenly, he wasn't just an ornament with a beak, but my Danny-Boy. For the first time, I noticed how alert, lively and spirited he was, how easily he repeated my words, forcing me to be cautious about the verbal bombs I sometimes dropped. This was one bright bird. Soon his vocabulary exceeded 40 words, including phrases most women long to hear:
"Hello, gorgeous. I'm so sorry. I love you! Where have you been? You take the cake!"
I bought him a larger cage, fancy toys, tasty treats. I e-mailed Mickaboo Cockatiel Rescue and learned about cockatiel favorites like carrots, broccoli, bagels, sweet potatoes and kale. I noticed how Danny-Boy went ballistic over hard-boiled eggs and how he made me laugh when he buried his face in his bowl of macaroni and emerged with pasta all over his beak.
And he was attentive despite never being finger-trained. He bit me once, hard, and I never tried again. The result was that he became fearful of my hands and scampered about his cage whenever I tried to pet him. As soon as I withdrew my evil appendage, however, he would immediately return to the cage wall, putting his little face as close to mine as possible so we could touch beak to nose through the bars.
Until recently.
Suddenly there was no "Hi, sweetie pie" or "I'm a good birdie." No wolf whistles or theme from "The Andy Griffith Show." His eyes were tired, his feathers fluffed. Something was wrong. Over the next month I spent hundreds of dollars carting him back and forth to an avian specialist, frantically trying to identify the unknown ailment. The vet observed that Danny-Boy's abdomen appeared swollen, indicating a possible growth, but I remained hopeful. He responded well to antibiotics and for a while returned to his usual chatty self.
Until the day I found him lying on the floor of his cage. When he allowed me to pick him up, I knew the end was near. Cupped in my hands, for the very first time in 15 years Danny-Boy let me stroke his delicate neck. Through my tears I repeated the words he had regaled me with over the years: "Hello, baby. I'm so sorry. I love you." As the light in his eyes faded, the plume of feathers atop his head started going down, almost like the avian equivalent of a waning heart monitor.
When he gasped his final breath, his plume fell flat against his neck and, with a heavy heart, I said goodbye to my beloved companion of 15 years. Danny-Boy may have been adopted on impulse, but through him I learned how much I could love "just a bird."
Learn more
To learn about cockatiels and other birds available for adoption, visit Mickaboo Companion Bird Rescue at www.mickaboo.org or call (650) 450-9104.E-mail pet tales to home@sfchronicle.com.
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