The Birds of Pandemonium

by Michele Raffin

  All was rosy between us until a shipment of mealworms was late to my vendor. Standing disconsolately over my substitution, Sweetie let me have it.

  “EEK! EEK! EEK!”

  Chastened, I searched all over and found another source that had some in stock. The clerk asked me if I wanted to have the worms coated in vitamins. It had never occurred to me to do this, but I realized it was a good idea. After that, I used worms as a delivery system for powdered vitamins and any necessary medications for many other birds. Score another lesson for Sweetie. This was a procedural advance, but the bigger lesson I was about to learn was this: listen hard enough and you’ll realize that a bird can communicate with humans, and in more than one way.

  Sweetie was so expressive and so clearly interested in engaging me that I was determined that we try to learn each other’s language. He had already taken the first step with consistently using the same “eek” sound to communicate that he wanted worms. I decided I would test out my first word in bird. I went to Sweetie’s aviary with the package of worms hidden in my pocket.

  “Eek,” I told him as best I could.

  No response.

  “EEK”? “Eek”? “EEEEEK”? I dangled a worm from my fingers.

  I wasn’t able to even come close to the exact sound he used, but when he saw the worm I was holding, he ran up to me, stood at my feet, and looked up expectantly.

  “Eek,” he said.

  “Eek,” I responded. Finally, success! He began jumping up the same way he did upon seeing a worm in my hand. I took the container of mealworms out, dumped a bunch on the ground, and let him have a feast. I practiced all day. “Eek. Eek. Eek. Eek.” The sound was imprecise, but I wanted to be consistent at least and make the same sound each time.

  Tom thought I was losing my mind. The children made it clear they agreed. They just hoped that none of their pals were around at feeding time. How might it look to see someone’s mom squatting in a cage, croaking? I had a rejoinder for their teasing.

  “Keep it up and you get ‘eek’ for supper.”

  From then on, when I croaked my “eek,” Sweetie knew that it meant a worm was coming. I realized that if I wanted to communicate further with Sweetie, not only did I have to use the same verbal cues, but I also had to become far more consistent in my use of body language. Any thought or desire had to be represented by one sound, one gesture—with just one meaning.

  Over time, Sweetie responded to almost a dozen words or gestures. I felt as if I understood at least as many parts of his language, spoken or behavioral. There was a certain way that he approached me if he wanted to be picked up, another if he didn’t. He’d let me know if he liked something by a particular purr. And of course, if I didn’t produce “eek” when he wanted it, I’d have one unhappy quail.

  I began to use the same principles—observation, consistency, and attention to detail—to try to communicate with other birds. Through experimentation with what worked and what didn’t, I’ve learned that if I’m patient and alert, the bird will let me know what it wants. Though none of our wild birds were as receptive to humans as Sweetie, many showed the inclination to communicate. Even wild birds not given to being social toward humans expressed their needs, their problems, and their state of well-being in sounds and behavior that were perfectly intelligible—as long as I paid attention.

  Looking hard was as essential as listening. Birds do use clear, easy-to-understand, and consistent signals to communicate with us. Most seasoned aviculturists can tell from the aviary commotion or the change in calls when their birds are alarmed, fighting among themselves, mourning, or content. We have learned to identify begging movements, courting dances, and the body language that warns us to stay away from a nest. Even pet owners with a single bird quickly learn to identify what we might classify as a state of mind. If you have an Amazon parrot, it would be a painful mistake to ignore the low body stance, open beak, and dilated eyes of a bird that’s not in the mood to be handled.

  Desperate situations can compel otherwise uncommunicative birds to alert humans who might help. One day I was puzzled at the flight pattern of a male crested quail-dove, a luminescent dove from the same island hills that produce Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee. He flew back and forth from a planter inside the aviary. I realized that he wanted me to focus my attention on it. When I looked behind it, there was a newly fledged baby wedged between the planter and the wall. A rescue was effected, and all was well.

  Birds are emphatic food critics. Should we feed them seeds too large, they will dump them all out on the ground and eat only the small ones. A piece of fruit or vegetable too bulky to manipulate is repeatedly picked up and dropped until a clueless human gets the message.

  I don’t whistle well, which can be a handicap for an aviculturist. Accomplished ornithologists can imitate a species’ call in the wild and get an instant response. Instead of complicated whistles, I decided to continue to use basic, monosyllabic English words—consistently, and with close attention to my own body language. I did add a series of simple whistles with very clear meanings. The most useful has been my netting whistle. Netting birds for transfer or medical checks is necessary but stressful. If I must net a bird, I enter the aviary straightforwardly, with a net in hand and clearly visible. I never pretend to be bringing food or a treat. I use a particular whistle to broadcast my intention to net, and I never use that sound in any other situation. I stare at the bird to be netted, and I’m very careful not to look at any other bird inside.

  Sometimes, the birds are complicit. Cabernet was a crimson rosella who tended to bully the other inhabitants of his aviary, which has a soaring twenty-foot ceiling. He needed to be moved, but the height would make it difficult. If it took a long time to net him, other birds might panic and get hurt by flying into walls, perches, or one another. I walked into the aviary and stared only at Cabernet. The other birds stayed calm and moved quietly out of the way as I chased my quarry. When I finally cornered him and got him in the net, the other birds seemed perfectly calm. It may be my imagination that they were pleased to be rid of the bully boy. What I am sure of is that the netting method has proved to be effective body language that reassures the other birds: Hey, it’s not about you. And nobody gets hurt.

  There are also simple ways of assuring wild birds that it’s okay when a well-intentioned human intrudes. By now, both birds and humans at Pandemonium are used to the “Michele crouch,” my preferred posture for entering an aviary to do routine maintenance, water a plant, or check a food bowl. The birds have come to understand that if I hold my body low, they can go about their business without interference. This has greatly reduced panic flying, which can cause injuries and needless stress.

  So much changed for the better once I realized that birds are close and shrewd observers of human behavior. As I engaged them in a consistent and repetitive form of communication, a new dimension of my relationship with them opened. I hate to think what I might have missed were it not for Sweetie, our foundling from the produce department.

  Given what the quail taught me, I would have been a blockhead not to realize that despite his excitement at seeing me every day, the company of his own kind would be far more enriching. We added more coturnix quail, and I think that Sweetie was a pretty content bird. His was an active, song-filled aviary when I brought my friend Janie by to look at all the birds. She was an accomplished cook who had fed Tom and me some fabulous meals. Janie stopped and stared fixedly at the sight of Sweetie.

  “Yum,” she said.

  I took her elbow and steered her toward some decidedly unappetizing grass parakeets. “Remind me,” I told her, as lightly as I could, “never to ask you to house-sit.”

  FIVE

  It Was Raining Birds

  Without realizing it, I had become one of those women—an otherwise reasonable adult whose growing passion for a certain kind of living thing, be it potbellied pigs or Pomeranians, causes a certain amount of eye rolling and outright pity for those who love and live wit
h her. Yes, I was a Bird Lady. I watched friends’ eyes glaze over at one too many birdie tales. Even good girlfriends stopped calling when I had canceled too many hikes, lunches, or shopping trips in favor of treks to the feed and grain store or an intense session of deworming. Most afternoons after a long day in the aviaries, work clothes spattered with bird poop and hands reeking of disinfectant, I was no fit sight for the designer floor of Neiman Marcus in rubber clogs.

  But I was never lonesome, and there was real meaning to my madness. Calls came in from sanctuaries, rescue groups, and panicky individuals who heard that a woman up in Los Altos was a sucker for unwanted birds. Our answering machine was full of offers that were hard to refuse.

  “I’ve lost my job and my home. There are two cockatiels . . .”

  “Heard you take birds that need a home. Listen, if you’ll pay the shipping . . .”

  “My breast cancer has come back. I’m starting four weeks of chemo. Please, take my bird.”

  My guidelines were simple. I turned down the best and the brightest in favor of the most unwanted. Birds that talked, had no behavioral problems, and were beautiful, easy to keep, and in good shape, I politely declined to take. I figured that birds like these would easily find a home. But handicapped birds that were old, sick, or in need of specialized food or housing—birds at risk—I did my best to accept. I felt I was in control of my own compulsions: I was no collector of rare, beautiful things but a rescuer of lost, damaged, or unloved birds.

  In they fluttered—pheasants, lovebirds, more dove species. Within a year of meeting the Browns in 2001, our backyard population grew exponentially: 33 birds by the end of 2002, 68 in 2003, and 119—representing thirty-three species—by the end of 2004.

  FROM THE LATE 1990s until around 2010, it was raining birds. I wish I had understood the reason why at the time. Avid watchers of wild birds scan the Weather Channel for storm systems that “drop” thousands of migrating birds—a bounty of viewable species—down into an area to ride out the weather. I had stumbled onto the scene in the midst of a huge upheaval in American aviculture. It wasn’t weather induced. The huge changes were the result of legislation enacted in 1992 that was good for wild birds but hugely problematic for commercial breeders and private collectors. For a rescue operation like mine, it opened the floodgates. Briefly, this is what happened.

  Before 1992, over three hundred thousand birds were taken yearly from wild forests, savannas, and marshes around the world for import to America—chiefly for the pet trade. Some of these birds were stolen directly from their nests. A standard method of reaching the nest was to cut down the tree that housed it. This procedure delivered a deadly one-two punch to wild bird populations. Nestlings were taken—along with their contributions to future generations—and their nesting areas were destroyed. Habitat destruction became more and more of an issue as forests were cut down for lumber or human development. Traps using live birds as decoys were also used, along with snares made of fishing line. Birds were caught en masse in “mist nets,” which are large, thin nylon nets, set up somewhat like volleyball nets, that capture anything that flies in. In the hands of trained, certified users, mist nets have proved to be an effective means of trapping birds for banding and scientific study without injury. Deployed by profit-minded commercial trappers, they can be deadly catchalls.

  The collateral damage was appalling: for every live bird that made it into pet stores and people’s homes, it is estimated that three birds died either during seizure, in transit, or in quarantine. Needless to say, taking a million birds year after year from the wild was not good for birds or the planet. The Wild Bird Conservation Act of 1992 limited importation of birds to two companion birds per year and required extensive documentation to prove that the birds were indeed pets, not captured wildlife intended for sale. The effect of the law on the numbers of birds imported into the United States was immediate and dramatic. In 1993, the year the law took effect, the number of birds imported fell to fewer than three thousand.

  If bird breeders here understood the need for such protection, they were unprepared for the profound effect on their operations. Before 1992, they were able to breed a large variety of birds. If they lost a bird or needed new blood, they could get what they needed by buying or trading for a wild-caught bird. The ready source of new genetic material meant that breeding stocks could be kept vibrant. Without the wild as a source of birds, there was no option other than to breed birds already in the United States. However, some species breed more easily and are more marketable than others. Parrots were at the top of the list in each category. Our aviaries would feel the effects of the resulting parrot “glut” a bit later on.

  The strategy that most breeders adopted was to specialize in raising pet birds on either end of the price spectrum: the very expensive birds like parrots, macaws, and cockatoos, or the “mass produced” small birds like budgies and finches. Birds that didn’t fit into these categories were discarded. Doves and pigeons did not make it onto the “hot” list.

  I sure did have a lot of them. From my inexperienced vantage point, the supply of birds seemed inexhaustible. Now I know that just the opposite was true. Yes, there were a lot of exotic doves and pigeons available for free or for bargain-basement prices, but that was not, as I assumed, normal. Breeders and collectors who realized the limitations of the new law wanted no part of species that, like discontinued china patterns, would be impossible to replenish should any of the pieces be lost.

  THROUGHOUT THIS PERIOD, as I continued accepting birds in need of homes, my network of sources somehow grew to include rescue groups, humane societies, and veterinarians. In addition, I met a lot of people with far worse cases of bird fever when Louis and Carol Brown invited me to the aviculturists’ ultimate ball—their annual Christmas party. It was the same deal every year: Elite breeders in overalls and steel-tipped work boots dropped their wives’ potluck dishes on a groaning table and sidled off to talk birds. The women spoke of grandchildren; the men stood in tight clusters discussing mealworms and roost disinfectant. At first, no men talked to me, until I met Larry, who also seemed a bit ill at ease, or just bored. Larry’s partner, Justin, was the bigger bird enthusiast, and he was off in a corner swapping yarns. Larry and I fell into deep conversation, and over the course of the next year, the three of us became long-distance bird pals, trading tips and gossip.

  Justin and Larry lived south in San Diego, where they kept a meticulously curated collection of exotic birds. Then they broke up. Their settlement divided the birds between them. Justin kept his, but Larry wasn’t keen on having these living, demanding reminders of a lost love. One day I found a message from him on my answering machine: “Expect some birds to come through the US post office. If you can breed these guys, the other bird breeders will be eating out of your hands and begging to talk to you at the next Christmas party. Hang in there.”

  The following day, the phone rang at 6:15 a.m. It was an anxious-sounding postal worker. “We have three crates of live birds for you. We’d appreciate if you could come right down to pick them up.”

  “Are you open this early?” I asked.

  “Not generally to the public, but we like to get live animals out of here ASAP. Come to the loading dock. Ask anyone you see there for the birds that just came in. We took a peek to check their condition, and no one here has ever seen anything like them. What kind are they?”

  I told him I hadn’t the slightest idea.

  I was getting used to such surprises. Birds were arriving unbidden, unannounced, and sometimes anonymously, like the pair of very rare crested quail-doves, native to Jamaica, that had turned up earlier that week in an unmarked box. When I got Larry’s crates home, my hands shook a bit as I opened each one.

  The first box held a single turaco. “Whoo, whoo, whooo,” she yelled when I looked in the crate. According to the accompanying paperwork, the bird was a female Guinea turaco. Her smooth, short bright green feathers ended in a zany crested tuft on her head. She peered at m
e through startling red-and-white eye markings and opened her orange beak again: “WHOOOOO.” Despite her long boxed journey, this was a gal with personality to spare.

  The second box had a pair of Nicobar pigeons, which I’d admired at the Browns’. Nicobar pigeons are black, crow-size birds that look somewhat sinister in the shade but whose feathers glow blue green in sunlight. They have a fringe of feathers that stick out around their neck like the top of a court jester’s jacket.

  The final box held a pair of odd-looking birds. They looked like an afterthought, put together with parts from several species. They had football-shaped bodies, and beaks that seemed more appropriate to a duck. Red lines streaked their yellow legs; it appeared as though they had varicose veins. When I called Louis to describe the birds to him, he got pretty excited.

  “You don’t know what you have there.”

  They were the species Louis was so intent on breeding, the green-naped pheasant pigeons. His words turned out to be a huge understatement. The two green-napeds would live quietly in their own aviary for a few years until a sad event there changed the whole trajectory of Pandemonium and my journey in aviculture. But that day when all the birds arrived, my main concern was how to explain the population increase to my family.

  “I had nothing to do with this!” I swore to Tom when he arrived home that night and gaped at the assortment of new arrivals. It just might be time to surprise him with a pair of the miniature donkeys I’d seen for sale at a farm near the Browns’. Sometimes the best defense is offense. But where would I fit a corral?

  SIX

  Amigo: A Bird and His Boy

  Another dove seemed ill, and I gently put it in a small dog carrier for a trip to the vet. As a novice bird keeper, I had come to rely on Dr. Varner for her avian expertise and advice. Our youngest son, Nick, then twelve, was with me as I sat in the waiting room. He had come to the clinic with me a few times before and knew his way around, so I let him go off to the restroom alone. A short time later, he joined me in the examining room, where a vet tech was weighing the dove. The tech and I looked up, startled.