Marguerite Floyd - Cockatiel Lessons

COCKATIEL LESSONS

how one little yellowbird

changedeverything

by

Marguerite Floyd

Smashwords Edition

~~~~

Cockatiel Lessons

Copyright 2012 Marguerite Floyd

All rights reserved. Without limiting therights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publicationmay be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic,mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without theprior written permission of both the copyright owner and the abovepublisher of this book.

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Acknowledgements

This book would not be possiblewithout a lot of help from a lot of people. In no particular order,I very much appreciated the special efforts of Jessie Franklin, SueSilverman, Phoebe Linden, Anne Shelby, Bev Harp, Christine Kennedy,Liz Wilson, and of course, Charli, Flash, and Nicholas. Specialthanks also to Bianca, Sonia, Virginia, Leah, Donna, Carla, the twoMegans, Ronnie, Cathy, and all the other Pennyroyal staff whosenames Ive forgotten.

The events recounted in this book arebased on my experiences and frequently faulty memory. Some names,dates, and events have been changed, and when I forgot specifics Iinvented as necessary.

Do not depend on the information inthis book as medical or behavior advice for your bird. Instead,find yourself a good avian vet and a good parrot behaviorconsultant.

for Sugar Franklin

Table of Contents

Foreword

The hole in the backyard I had had dugthree years ago is overgrown now with the season's new grass. Everyspring I make a note that I need to have it filled in so no onestumbles over it, and then I promptly forget about it. Just as Ihave a thousand times before, I remind myself again that I made theright decision.

The wild bird feeder hanging from thetree is empty and I refill it. I prefer the small birds to thegrackles and starlings, so I use safflower seed in the feeder. Ihang a suet cake just in case any of the larger birds stopby.

I disconnect the cord from the birdbath. It's been a warm March and there will be no more freezingtemperatures. All winter the finches and cardinals and mourningdoves have eaten their fill in my backyard and splashed happily inthe bird bath. Occasionally, the neighbor's cat comes through,drawn by the chirping and singing, but is always surprised to findthe birds gone by the time he arrives.

I make a complete circuit around thehouse, checking that everything has survived the winter intact. AsI go back inside the house, I remind myself again to have that holefilled.

ChapterOne

I knew I was going to do it, eventhough I kept telling myself I was just looking.

"Let's just go in and look," I told mymother. I pushed open the door to the pet store. "I want to seetheir birds."

It was the Saturday beforeThanksgiving, 1998, and the store was crowded and noisy with adultsin bulky coats and children running to point at the fish tanks orexclaim over the puppies.

Most Valuable Pets was Lexington'snewest pet store, already famous for having big colorful parrots ondisplay. I wanted to see if the rumors were true that the parrotswere uncaged and allowed to interact with the customers. My motherand I made our way to the back of the store, led by the sounds ofsquawking and calls.

Most of the birds were on the floor ofthe big open display while some bigger birds were perched on anartificial tree. Occasionally, a green or red medium-sized birdwould venture out of the displays frame and cling to the wall,watching us watching it. There seemed to be all colors and sizes ofbirds, and their noises drowned out the sounds of humans. Twolarger white birds were screeching at each other while a smallgreen one was whistling. I couldn't make out if it was whistling anactual song or just random notes.

"Get one that talks," my motherinstructed me. She stood a safe distance away lest any of the birdssingle her out and poop on her. I was transfixed by the energy andcolor and noise of the birds; they were all busy preening, fussingat each other, scratching at the bedding, eating, or just walkingaround. A small gray bird with a tall crest walked over to me andtilted its head up to get a better look.

Lately I'd found myself thinking ofhaving birds in the house again, only maybe one a bit moreinteractive than the zebra finches I used to have. Finches were shyand really didn't want to be bothered with humans. They wereperfectly content to stay in their cage and chirp their littlefinch chirps. As a child I had had a blue parakeet I named Kimbecause the word had such an exotic sound, but it had died not longafter taking up residence in the living room.

A young man with glasses magicallyappeared, smiling and ready to be helpful. He had on a headset withthe microphone cupped around his face to his mouth.

"I'm thinking about getting a bird," Isaid. "What kind is this one? I pointed to the little gray bird,who was now rocking back and forth, like a child waiting for icecream.

"That's a cockatiel," he said "buthe's been sold." He leaned down and scooped up a yellow birdnearby, about the same size and also with a crest. It immediatelyhopped off his hand and onto my shoulder. Then it ran to the middleof my back.

I froze and then squirmed and twistedand tried to reach the bird with my hands. What if I couldn't grabit? What if I grabbed it and it bit me? A couple of customersturned to watch me. The clerk plucked the bird off my back andplaced it on my hand.

It and I looked at each other -- mewith a kind of wonder and fear, it with what I imagined wasindignation, if birds even felt indignation. It ran to my backagain.

Again the clerk put the bird on myhand. I pretended to examine it closely. It was all yellow exceptfor two large round orange spots on its cheeks. Mother pointed outthat there was a bald spot on the bird's head, almost hidden by itscrest. The clerk assured us that it was a genetic trait of thelutino cockatiel and perfectly normal. "These are great birds," hesaid. "Everybody loves cockatiels."

I nodded as though I knew what he wastalking about. "What do you think," I asked my mother.

"Will it talk?" my motherasked.

"Most of them can," the clerk saidcheerfully.

"How old is it?" I asked.

"All these cockatiels are about fivemonths old," he said.

The bird was staying on my finger. Itseemed to be studying me, as if it was plotting something. Ireminded myself that it was just a bird, incapable of plottinganything.

"Can I pet it?" I asked.

"Sure," the clerk said.

I lifted my free hand and immediatelythe bird ran up my arm and to the back of my neck and down to themiddle of my back. I twisted myself around and bent my arm back,trying to get the bird to come back down my arm. A few morecustomers turned to watch. My mother had an alarmed look on herface. I felt like an idiot. It was obvious I had no businessgetting a bird.

The clerk calmly plucked the bird offmy back and put it back on my hand.

"What if I get home and it runs to myback again?"

The clerk nodded. "Just take yourtime. He's used to humans. His headset began crackling and heturned his head and whispered into it.

I looked at my mother. She shrugged."It's up to you," she said. "You know what you're doing. Of coursethis was not even remotely true, but my mother always assumes thebest of me.

I looked again at the creature on myfinger. As if on cue, it immediately ran up my arm and to myback.