I was stunned into an uncharacteristic silence. That cardboard box. He must have silently hidden in it out of fear for his life, every day.
“Who, whoooo!”
Amadeus sang his happy hosannas as the two visitors drove off, and I was left to ponder his sudden and happy reversal of fortune. The bird nanny cared so much about Amadeus’s well-being that she was willing to risk losing a friendship in order to ensure that the turaco was where he belonged, and safe.
NOT LONG AFTER, it became clear that Amadeus had a sensitivity to the silent suffering of humans who have no voice. An acquaintance and his son Chad, who was diagnosed with autism, came to visit. It was always a special interaction to watch. One particular visit by father and son was an especially moving experience for us all.
Michael and Chad passed Amadeus’s aviary. The quiet was almost eerie as our noisy welcomer regarded our approach. Nary a “whooooo” escaped his beak. The bird was watching Chad intently. I opened the aviary door and pressed my body against the screening to let Chad enter past me without our touching; he did not like loud noises or body contact. He went to a folding chair I had placed in the aviary and sat motionless, his eyes staring at the ground, his hands folded on his lap. For a minute or so, there was no movement from either boy or bird.
I stepped outside the aviary and soundlessly closed the door behind me. Michael pressed close to the wire, watching Chad. His face was tight with apprehension. We both knew that if Amadeus made a fraction of his normal noise or flew near his visitor’s face, Chad would have a traumatic and potentially harmful meltdown. This was their third visit, but the boy had always stayed outside the aviary.
Chad was entranced by Amadeus and had been asking for a bird of his own. His father was concerned about that. Life was already tense and complicated for this family, and adding a pet might not be the best thing to do. But as a parent willing to try almost anything to help his child, he had brought Chad again for a visit and a talk about a companion bird for him.
Amadeus seemed equally interested in Chad—enough to change his own behavior entirely. His normal greeting for any visitor is to call out loudly as he flies from branch to branch. That day with Chad, he flew down to the aviary floor and stood as still as he could manage. With only one leg, Amadeus is not comfortable standing on the floor. The only time I’ve seen him on the floor is when Chad visited.
After less than a minute of scrutiny, Amadeus flew to Chad’s lap, using the boy’s body to steady himself. Alighting anywhere is hard for Amadeus. The wide, flat perches in his aviary are wrapped in athletic tape to cushion the hard surface. Even these are challenging. Sitting on an uneven surface such as a lap is quite an athletic feat. Yet Amadeus managed it. He has sat in Chad’s lap, and in the laps of other autistic boys, but never in anyone else’s. Amadeus will take blueberries from my finger, sucks on my thumb, and rubs noses with me when I crouch down to look at him from eye level. But sit on my lap? Never. Even petting him is tricky. It’s difficult for him to maintain his balance if I run my fingers over his neck feathers, so I rarely try.
With these autistic boys, there is a connection that seems to stabilize both of them. Even a casual observer could not help noticing how relaxed and at peace bird and boy are when they are together. After a couple of minutes, Amadeus could no longer manage the uneven surface, so he flew off, a flash of vermilion visible underneath his wings. The boy watched as Amadeus settled on an overhead perch. He was still close to Chad but clearly finished with this interaction. Therapy session over.
This silent kinship with autistic boys doesn’t seem to transfer to autistic girls, nor to any other children. Amadeus just sticks to his specialty. When Chad got up and left the aviary, Michael asked eagerly, “Did you enjoy that? Was it fun?” The boy reached toward his dad with one hand, fingers outstretched. He touched his dad’s leg lightly with his fingertips, and I saw tears in Michael’s eyes.
Michael asked about getting Chad a bird. Where could they find a Lady Ross’s turaco? I cautioned that this might not be the best idea for several reasons. First, birds are as different from one another as humans are, and I doubted whether he would find another Lady Ross’s turaco who responded like Amadeus. And then there is the messy issue of keeping a pet turaco in the house. They eat fruit like blueberries, papaya and apples. Papaya is expensive and sometimes hard to find, and because of the blueberries, turaco poop is violet colored—not so great for upholstered furniture and rugs! More important than the Technicolor dive-bombing issue, though, was how to keep this sort of bird happy. I feared it required a lot more attention than these stressed parents could manage.
They decided against a bird, and we had to end Amadeus’s visit with autistic boys shortly after. He now has a breathtaking companion, a female violaceous turaco named Kenya. She is afraid of people, so we don’t allow anyone into the aviary that she and Amadeus share. She has been getting calmer and more comfortable over time. She still won’t take a blueberry out of my hand, but she will sit next to Amadeus when he takes one from me. He then turns his head and feeds the blueberry to Kenya.
I don’t know whether Kenya will ever feel totally comfortable around people, but she and Amadeus are happy together. Their contented bonding keeps us on mission. Maybe someday Amadeus will again deploy his compassionate skills on autistic young boys of his own volition. But we’d never try to force him into the role of a “service” bird.
There is an expanding field of service-animal therapy that pairs birds, usually parrots, with people who have psychiatric and emotional disorders. The birds are carefully trained, but some, like Amadeus, seem to have natural inclinations to connect with troubled humans. In 2008, the New York Times reported on a fascinating relationship between an “assistance parrot” named Sadie and Jim Eggers, a Saint Louis man who described himself as bipolar “with psychotic tendencies” that have led to public rages, property destruction, and arrests. Sadie rides in a special backpack, and when she senses signs of an anger flare-up, she helps defuse the situation with a calming voice in his ear: “It’s O.K., Jim. Calm down, Jim. You’re all right, Jim. I’m here, Jim.” Eggers got her from a friend who owned a pet store and took her in. Sadie had endured an owner so neglectful that the stressed bird had torn out most of her feathers. Eggers said the bird trained herself in the calming mode after witnessing his anger erupt at home (though it was never, ever directed at the bird). Since they’d been together, Eggers had had only one public incident, denting a woman’s car fender with his fist. That day, he had left Sadie at home.
IN OUR OWN home, I was dreading a potential flare-up and some avian grieving. Nick had chosen a college in Canada. At first he thought he could bring Amigo with him, but it became clear that this was not possible. Amigo was left with his two least favorite humans: Tom and me. The parrot remained in familiar surroundings, though, with people he knew. He tolerated my taking care of him; if he needed a head scratch or wanted to be moved out of his cage, I was his only choice.
Once Nick was gone, Amigo couldn’t continue to live under his bed without supervision. The first cage I got for him barely fit in Nick’s room. Later, when we adopted Tico, who is much larger than Amigo, I decided to give Tico the bigger cage and I found a smaller one for Amigo. For Amigo it was a double slight. He had lost Nick and now his roost. And I was to blame for it all.
As with firstborn children who have to bear the brunt of their parents’ inexperience, I had made plenty of mistakes with Amigo. And parrots don’t forget. Chief among Amigo’s resentments: I had refused to believe that he had really chosen Nick that day in Dr. Varner’s clinic. But Amigo’s vindication came a while after Nick had left for college. One day I was working in my office when a young woman, a summer intern working with the birds, walked into the office with Amigo on her shoulder. I started to scold. Carrying a parrot that way was in clear violation of the Pandemonium rules.
“It’s not my fault,” she explained sheepishly. “Amigo called me over, and while I was standing in fr
ont of his cage, he opened his cage door, reached over with his beak, and grabbed onto my shirt, and then climbed on me.”
Amigo was already preening her hair, something he’d done only with Nick. I knew it was wrong to let him stay on anyone’s shoulder, but I was also certain he wouldn’t bite his new love. Then Amigo suddenly stopped running his beak through her hair.
“Why?” he asked. And since no one answered, he went on: “Why not?”
The intern giggled. Amigo launched into his old routine.
“Why? Why not? Why? Why not?”
Our philosopher-parrot was back and courting a new relationship. I closed my eyes and let myself be transported to the sweet days when I watched in wonder at how much a boy and a parrot could love each other. Finally I had to credit the little green bird with having impressive skills for assessing the human heart.
Why not?
TWELVE
The Flock in Peril: Mice, Men, and Microbes
What you don’t know about birds can kill them. I learned this the hard way. I also discovered a disturbing addendum: the most deadly perils may be hiding in plain sight. Our birds have weathered serious crises inflicted by disarmingly familiar creatures, from man to mouse to microbe. While all were devastating, the most disturbing was the harm done by man. A human can smile and croon that he just adores birds while he does his best to destroy them.
Since many of our aviaries were being added during the housing boom that ended in 2008, good carpenters were hard to find; rarer still were those we could afford. We were still financing the sanctuary ourselves on a wing, a prayer, and some serious scrimping. A few aviaries were modified garden sheds from Costco. When we realized that we had to expand yet again, the scarcity of carpenters led me to hire Ivan, a glowering, taciturn man with a mysterious knack for “finding” expensive building materials and tossing them into his truck.
Ivan sported an impressive set of upper torso tattoos. They were always on display, since he worked with his shirt off. Our son Ross, who was nine at the time, was fascinated by the well-endowed women and fierce mythical beasts that chased one another across Ivan’s chest and shoulders. He spent a lot of time with Ivan.
One day Ross asked me, “Did you know that you can get a tattoo in jail?”
I admitted that I didn’t.
“Well, you can. You pay for it with cigarettes and smack, although I don’t understand why you smack the tattoo person.”
I stopped chopping vegetables and asked him, “Where did you hear that?”
He proudly told me that his new friend Ivan was a really “rad” guy. Settling at the kitchen table, Ross spooled out some of Ivan’s tales of life behind bars. The details suggested an alarming authenticity. When I told Tom about it, he was sure that if Ivan had indeed been in jail, he had probably been put away for a drug conviction or some other nonviolent crime. “Why don’t you ask him why he did time?” Tom suggested.
I was wrestling with how to broach the subject when Ross piped up that he had already asked Ivan why he’d landed in jail.
“Killed a guy,” Ivan had apparently told Ross. “We got in a fight and I hit him with a bottle. Went away for seven years.” Then he grimly advised our son, “Don’t ever drink.”
For two days, Ross had refused all liquids, and now we knew why. We had gotten to the bottom of his aversion, but I was less and less comfortable having Ivan around. I was also afraid to fire him, even though he was a lousy carpenter. Nails were sticking out of places where they shouldn’t, and there were large gaps between the walls and the floor and between the walls and the roof. All of it was bad for the birds. But what if he had killed a man? Fortunately, Ivan spared us the angst of canning him by simply disappearing one day—along with a bunch of our tools.
Looking back, I have to say he was a model citizen compared to the carpenter I hired to finish the aviary Ivan had left in pieces. I found Ron through the manager of our hardware store. “Ron is your guy,” he told me, with no hint of irony or equivocation. “When you meet him, you might think he’s crazy. He’s not. Just a bit off, that’s all.”
When your house is full of yawping, pooping caged birds because you’ve run out of aviary space, your judgment may be clouded. After all, Ron was recommended by a trusted local merchant. And he seemed okay, if a bit strange looking. He was about five feet tall and very slim, with unruly red hair, and he dressed head to toe in army gear: tall boots, camouflage pants and shirt, all topped with a green metal helmet that harked back to the World War I doughboys.
“Were you in the armed services?” I asked, trying to break the ice. Ron was silent for several seconds. Then he nodded his head.
“Secret Service,” he whispered. “Don’t tell anyone. They’re still after me.” Ron raised his index finger to his lips and added, “Never trust anyone. You never know who is on the side of good or”—he lowered his voice—“the side of evil.”
Great—from a murderer to a conspiracy theorist. At least it seemed the lesser of personality flaws. I’ll say this: Ron was a decent carpenter, but he had a maddening tic. He needed praise for his skills each time he drove in a nail. He’d call me over every few minutes: “Look, Michele! Isn’t this hinge amazing?” Soon I was sneaking around my own home just to avoid bestowing the constant kudos he required.
I was crouched in the kitchen one afternoon, stealthily brewing some tea, when Ron strolled into the room. As soon as he saw me, he dropped into a squat level with mine. “I’m here. You’re safe,” he whispered to me. He patted his belt where his hammer hung from a strap. “No one is going to hurt you while I’m around. I’ll protect you.”
I got up and assured him that I was grateful for his help. I don’t know why, but I asked, “Who are you protecting me from?”
“The evil ones. You know. The ones who are letting your birds out.”
A dim little bell went off. I had indeed lost birds since Ron started working. First a ringneck dove went missing, then an emerald dove. I was the only person feeding and watering the birds, and none had escaped in my presence, so how and why the birds went missing was a mystery. I had found no trace of marauding raccoons or coyotes. A few days after our kitchen summit, I saw Ron standing in an aviary, filling the water dish. The door was wide open. I ran outside, shoved the door shut, and told Ron he was never to enter an occupied aviary again. “But I love birds. I want to give them fresh water,” he insisted.
A couple of days later I found him inside a cage again, door open. I reiterated—strongly—that he was not to be in there, ever, and that these exotic birds would perish in the wild if they escaped. It was as if he were hearing the warning for the first time. He repeated that he loved birds—just wanted to give them water. I caught him a third time and decided that he had to go. The next day was Friday, Ron’s day off. As I did errands around town, I contemplated how and when to get him off the property safely on Monday. Halfway home, a strange and sudden dread took hold of me. I felt panicky, with a painful pit in my stomach. Something felt awfully wrong. But it was Friday, so it should be okay, right?
I can’t explain the premonition that pushed me to ignore the speed limit on my way home. I found Ron standing in front of the Aussie Aviary, net in hand. A male scarlet-chested grass parakeet struggled within it. I looked inside the aviary: of the thirteen birds that should have been there, only two remained, a crippled female and her fledgling, both on the ground. Neither could fly well, but the others had all taken advantage of some breach in the cage.
I saw immediately how it had happened. Along the perimeter of the aviary, right underneath the roof, there was a series of five-inch-diameter ventilation holes. A wire grate covered each of them so that the birds could not get out. Now, three of the wire grates were lying on the floor of the aviary. The screws that had held them in place were on the ground. It was clear that the grates had been purposely unfastened.
I wanted to scream. It was November and the cold winter rains had already started. There was no way these warm-climat
e Australian birds could survive without shelter. They had been born in captivity, so they did not have the skills to find food on their own. Their spectacular coloration would make them easy targets for predators. I stood there unable to speak coherently for a moment, but Ron was downright cheerful. He was wearing a creepy grin.
“Whew. Good thing I happened to be in the neighborhood. I saved your bird. See.” He held up the net with the male scarlet-chested. It was Ben, the son of one of the birds that I’d gotten from Louis and Carol the day we’d met.
“Grates must have fallen off. Good thing I stopped by to check on the birds. If I wasn’t here, you’d have lost all of them. Don’t you worry, now, young lady. I’ll put these grates back on, lickety-split.”
I snatched the netted bird from him, and I shook as I watched him make the repair. Then I locked the aviary door myself. If I spoke to Ron, I can’t recall what I might have said. I had unwittingly exposed my birds to a lying psychopath, and I’m sure I was in some sort of shock. Later, when I told Tom, I thought back to the first time we fell so hard for the scarlet-chested grass parakeets at the Browns’. These loquacious four-inch birds are among the most beautiful in the world. This was like tossing rubies into a landfill. And how badly the birds would suffer. I couldn’t bear to think about it.
At first, Tom seemed circumspect about Ron’s transgression. I insisted Ron had to be fired without delay. Tom countered, “There’s no proof that he let the birds out. I asked him if he’d done it, and he insisted he loves birds and would never hurt them.” But we both realized that the guy was unhinged. Tom spoke my worst fear aloud: Ron might be dangerous. If we fired him, he might come back and exact revenge, even hurt other birds. Tom came up with an effective plan: He paid Ron in full for the job even though it wasn’t finished. He made up a story to explain why we wanted the construction to end immediately. Ron left humming.
The Birds of Pandemonium Page 13