Old Bird New Tricks

I have this wonderful pocket parrot I rescued about ten years ago. He is tiny, and weighs less than an ounce- 28 grams to be exact. He’s smaller than a Lovebird, or parakeet. Smaller than a salt shaker but bigger than a hummingbird. I love birds. And anyone who knows me knows that if Barbara Walters ever asked me if I were a tree what tree would I be? I‘d answer “who gives a fig about a tree I want to be a bird.” I mean if I had to pick between a tree and a bird that is. I’ve read that book The Giving Tree and it doesn’t go so well for that tree. It gives and gives and at the end it gets chopped down. Still that’s not enough. The end of the book is that ungrateful kid as an old man sitting his tired selfish ass on that poor tree stump. No thank you I’d rather be bird and poop on that bastard.

I digress.

Larry has had a hard life. He came to me as a rescue after he was found half dead in the gutter of Santa Monica Blvd being attacked by two crows. Dr Lavac (our vet) worked on him but could only save one leg. When I first saw him he was the saddest looking bird I had ever seen. I named him Lucky Larry. You know because he was lucky to be alive. But he had no feathers except on his head and few on his tiny wings. Because of this he couldn’t regulate his temperature so we bought him a Ken doll sweater and cut the sleeves so it was more of a vest and a green beanie baby frog to sleep with. He adapted well to our family and slept within the arms of that frog in a fish tank (without water of course) for about a year. Until he finally grew enough down feathers where could live in a proper handicap accessible bird cage which we opened up so he could interact with our other pocket parrots Louie and Lola. All along that little bird was the most loving of our birds. He didn’t talk but when we called his name or asked where he was, he always chirped back. And he’d fly down on our shoulder and hide under our hair preening us as if we too were birds.

One day I got another call from the vet. They had a much larger wild conure that had been shot down while flying with his flock by some kids with a BB gun. He’d lost part of his skull and a wing so would never be able to be released into wild again. Bandit was his name. He moved in and immediately fancied Larry’s frog and every so often we’d see him hanging on the outside of Larry’s cage preening the frog through the bars on the cage. Until one afternoon I got home from work and the house was silent. I mean really silent. I went up to the loft, which was the birds’ den and lost my breath at the site. There was birdie blood everywhere on the wall, the carpet, and the loveseat. But the strangest thing of all was that although all the cages were open all the birds but Larry were in their cages… the green frog was on the floor with blood on its body and Larry next to it, bleeding. I picked him up immediately and wrapped him in towel and headed to the vet. I drove with him in my shirt making sure to keep him warm. At a red light I finally looked down at his face. He had no beak! I had been so worried about the blood and getting him help I hadn’t thought to find out what was actually making him bleed. Oh my god, I thought, there is a carnivorous bird in my home. Bandit must have bitten it off. My mind reeled. Bandit, a bird; a decedent of the dinosaurs; a little T-Rex alone right now in my house with two smaller pellet eating, seed loving, vegan pocket parrots right there in the wolf’s den, or in our case loft. 


I put the pedal to metal and got to the vet in about ten minutes. Calling my house every couple of minutes and speaking into the answering machine loudly addressing Bandit. Hoping we hadn’t turned down the volume on the thing and that it was loud enough for him to hear. “Bandit. Stay in your cage.” “If you stay in your cage I will bring you your favorite. A chile pepper plant. You love pepper plants Bandits. Be a good bird Bandit and stay in your cage.” 

Dr Lavac had seen many things in his career but he’d never seen a beak less pocket parrot live through so much trauma and blood loss. There was nothing for me to do there, he said. They were doing everything they could for Lucky Larry and he would call me before he left. I had told him about my concerns about having left Bandit at the house and he agreed that I should get there as soon as possible.

When I got home it was dark and quiet. I steeled myself as I turned the lights on and made my way up the stairs to the loft. Everything looked as I had left it, and the birds were all in their cages and accounted for. Louie and Lola were asleep safely in the furry hut in their cage. Froggie was on the floor bloody but intact. Then I looked at Bandit. He was scared and and wincing. When I looked closer he was nursing his foot, which looked as if it had been bleeding. He wouldn’t let me near him and tried to bite me a few times when I insisted. Then I brought the promised pepper plant and gave him a pepper. He took it in his beak, but could not really eat it as he normally used his foot to hold it while balancing on the other, so it fell to the bottom of the cage. I gave him another and this time he nibbled at it as I held it in my hand. I was then able to see that he had little tiny bloody beak marks on both his feet but one was more hurt than the other. Larry had fought back, but why? Looking around I saw the answer staring at me with bloodied plastic eyes. Froggie.

Back in the car I went with Bandit, and Froggie. Back to Dr Lavac for Bandit. Back to Lucky Larry with his Froggie. It took six months and countless liquid baby bird food by dropper feedings, but Lucky Larry lived and grew back half his beak and half his feathers. Bandit eventually “flew the coop” when he fell in love with another conure rescued my a friend of mine and now they live together in Redondo Beach.

So what’s a bird without a foot? Or feathers? Or a beak? A hero to a frog. A friend of a bandit. A teacher to a cynic. Our beloved Lucky-Larry-the-one-legged-half-beaked-one-nare-naked-Bird.