As far as animals go, I guess I've always had a thing for
them. It's very endearing when you're a child but it winds
up bordering on just plain weird once you've entered the
adult world. I say this as a large parrot sits on my shoulder
attempting to eat the hair clip off of my head. Because
the hair clip is less expensive than the keyboard that the
damn bird was obsessed with eating last month, I am happy
to let the animal eat the hair clip.
Now to the bigger question, why is there a bird on my head
to begin with? It's genetic, I'm afraid. No, it's not really
a birth defect in the way of a physical disfigurement because
the bird is not actually, physically attached to my head.
If it were, in fact, merely a malformation, I could have
the avian tumor surgically removed with little pain or scarring.
As it is, however, this is not a physical deformity, but
more seriously, a mental one. I know it came from my father's
side of the family because with the exception of a heaping
bowl of "menudo" nobody on my mother's side has a remote
liking for animals. So after having spent my childhood rescuing,
finding, kidnapping animals and bringing them home, I realized
this passion and earned my degree in biology with an emphasis
on wildlife. I hoped that this would legitimize my affection
towards animals. In truth it only confirmed the belief of
many that I was, in fact, mentally unbalanced. I began to
wonder as well.
Back to the bird on my head…after graduating I wound up
working at a zoo. I was training animals, writing scripts
and performing on stage with the animals for the zoo's education
program. We trained mostly birds for our daily shows. It
was a lot like what they do at Sea World- you know, the
big stadium with the whales and the "Splash Zone". Unfortunately,
our show didn't have any whales and on a slow day our "stadium"
was likely to contain one breast-feeding mom and her infant.
If you found yourself in our "Splash Zone" it meant that
one of the birds accidentally pooped on you. Our department
was considered the Ugly Stepchild of the zoo so instead
of having an ample budget to work within and well adjusted,
healthy animals for our shows we scraped by with what we
were given and hoped they didn't lay us off. The old Snack
Bar was converted into an office and our department was
given hand-me-down animals to train. These were misfit birds
from other areas of the zoo that for one reason or another
could not happily coexist with the other members of their
respective flock. As a whole, we were happy to take on the
animals that had nowhere else to go, though what we ended
up with was a sort of motley crew of lovable, if not totally
insane birds.
First there was Primo, a small, endangered parrot that had
been confiscated by the authorities as an illegal pet. She
had no feet. Ok, she had feet but her legs didn't really
work so she may as well have been footless. She could waddle
around her huge cage just fine using her little black beak
for stability. She couldn't really fly either. Well, she
could fly, she just couldn't land, so for the most part
she stayed put. She had absolutely no brain and the only
thing she could be trained to do was scream. The difficulty
involved in teaching a parrot to scream is along the same
lines as teaching a baby to cry. However, she did have an
amazing ability to squeak out a watery poop and have it
land on your leg no matter where you happened to be sitting.
Now that I think about it, maybe she was in actuality, a
genius…Yes that may be it! She was so intellectually superior
that she had trained us to give her sunflower seeds every
time she screamed and would later, passive-aggressively
poop on us to mark her disdain…Anyway, despite her disability,
she led a pretty happy life, and was the true love of Elvis.
Elvis was the beautiful big red Macaw parrot in the next
cage. He didn't talk too much but he was known to cheerfully
squawk, "Primo! Good Bird, Primo!" as well as, "COCK-SUCKER!"
The zookeeper that taught these words to the parrot (Anne
Sumner of Phoenix, Arizona U.S.A) later left the zoo to
pursue a Maters' degree in education. She is now leading
the youth of America.
And then there was Sam. Remember that show with that actor-turned
murderer, called "Baretta"? That white bird with the yellow
feathers on top of its head was a cockatoo. Sam was a goofy
cockatoo that would decide within 60 seconds of laying eyes
on you if she was going to love you or hate you. Sam was
at best, unpredictable, and at worst, a sociopath who took
pleasure in terrorizing some individuals. I've never seen
anyone "work" people the way that bird did. I found it impossible
not to admire a 12-ounce animal that could practice revenge,
manipulation and intimidation on someone 100 times its own
size. When Sam was not attacking people, she was an affectionate
and intelligent animal. She quickly became my favorite.
Once in Korea a few months, I began to do some research
on the international exportation laws regarding birds. A
bird would be fairly easy to transport out of the country
when our stay here is over without having to stick it in
the baggage compartment for the long flight home. What I
failed to realize at the time was that keeping the thing
alive the first month would be the difficult part. A few
weeks went by when, by chance, I peeked into a pet store
and was astounded when I saw a rare cockatoo. After some
negotiations with the husband, the pet store guy and my
Korean friend (who has given herself the title of my "Manager")
we returned the next night and purchased the bird. We took
the bird to our apartment where the parrot seemed well adjusted
after just a few days. Now, do you remember those post Beatle
solo efforts by John Lennon? He'd always let that busy-bodied
wife of his sing back up didn't he? I figure she must've
been hinting around, "… 'Paul and Linda' this, 'Paul and
Linda' that…" because, as you know, that milk curdling,
Japanese voice of hers could peel the paint off the walls.
These are the exact vocalizations typical of a cockatoo.
As we were listening to Lennon's' brilliant, "Oh, Yoko",
a tune in honor of his tone-deaf wife, the name seemed an
obvious choice. No wrap-arounds, thank god, but our feathered
"Yoko" still the same nails-on a chalkboard voice.
Within a week Yoko, was sick. His appetite and attitude
declined quickly so I began to look for a veterinarian in
Pusan that could help us. Although I was given the name
of an avian vet prior to buying the bird, I quickly learned
that the vet did not do birds when my "Manager" phoned his
office. Between the two of us, we called or e-mailed every
zoo and veterinary college in all of Korea, nobody treated
birds. The nearest avian veterinarian was in Japan. I was
doing all I could at home by talking on the phone and through
e-mail to a vet friend, Curtis (a specialist in birds) back
in my home state. All he could do was make an educated guess
and prescribe a general antibiotic.
Curtis suggested putting some medicine in the birds' food.
He told me what dosage of what to give, as the only other
choice I had was to do nothing at all. I planned to visit
a pharmacist to buy the antibiotics after work. I left that
morning thinking that I'd be coming home to a dead bird
in a few hours. I thought of that Monty Python skit when
the guy buys a dead parrot-Oh my god, that's me! Despite
thinking of John Cheeses' "this parrot is de-ceased!" I
was too depressed to laugh. At work I overheard an American
co-worker explaining to a new teacher, "I'm not sure what's
wrong with her bird…maybe Chicken Pox?" followed by some
very muffled laughter. Good one, but again, I was too upset
to laugh at even this truly tasteless gem. Thankfully, my
first morning class consisted of adult students who are
much more like friends and surrogate mothers to me than
like students. They knew something was wrong immediately.
I was a little hesitant to tell them that I was depressed
because of my dying bird. It's nutty enough in my own country
to have a pet parrot; surely these people would think I
was extremely eccentric at the very least. However when
I told them they were genuinely concerned. Whether the concern
was for the bird, or me it didn't matter, they wanted to
help. One of the students took control and said, "I will
drive you to the vet." I didn't think there was anyone who
could help us so I was hesitant but Jenny insisted. "My
friend told me that there is a vet nearby here. He is a
nice man." I grabbed my coat and she led me to her car.
I realized when Jenny and I arrived at my house that I didn't
have a carrier for the bird so I cut a little hole in a
cardboard box and put poor Yoko inside. I thought he'd hate
the box arrangement but he was too sick to care or at least
put up a fight. We walked into the vet's office and my friend
began a long talk with the vet. The vets body language and
tone of voice were not reassuring. Jenny turned to me and
told me under her breath that he didn't feel right treating
an animal that he had no training for and therefore, could
not diagnose. I understood his reservations. It would be
unethical for him to treat an animal that he had no qualifications
for. Ironically, I thought he must be a good vet, if he
refuses to treat my bird! Damn- another good one, but I
had no sense of humor that day so I stood there dumb, holding
a box full of sick bird as the negotiations continued without
me.
In the meantime I was made aware of a little dog barking
frantically at me. I hadn't taken notice of it at first
but this thing had been barking for a few minutes already
since we'd walked in, I think. Stranger still, this dog
was day-glow pink. And he was angry about it. An angry pink
dog.
I am no stranger to weird animals as my zoo experience reflects.
However, while working at the animal hospital I met some
really strange animals with even stranger owners. There
was the lady, who corrected me when I said,
"What a cute dog!"
"Please don't call him that"
"What, 'cute' "?
"No, 'dog'. He's not a dog. He is my baby". She said this
softly so the "baby" wouldn't hear, I guess.
There was one lady who would put her miniature poodle in
her purse and then go to the movies with it. "Oh, Muffin
just LOVES the movies!" And then there was the college student
that drove around town in her Jeep with her pit bull riding
shotgun. Both securely fastened in by the seat belts, she'd
hit the drive-through, order a Coke and ice-cream cone for
the driver and passenger respectively, on the way to the
park, sporting SPF 15 on their noses, oh wait, that was
me and my dog. Never mind.
Anyhow, the point here was that I'd never seen a pink dog.
Blind dogs, yes. Three-legged dogs, yes. Primary-colored,
no, never. Maybe the dog was color-blind. Maybe he thought
he was green and not pink. Yes, that may have been his problem.
Or maybe it wasn't a problem at all, maybe he wasn't angry
about his hair, but I doubt it. I do have a tendency to
anthropomorphize but all I know is that if I insisted my
husband wear a pink shirt for even an afternoon, he wouldn't
be happy about it. So it's got to be terribly emasculating
to actually be pink. Look at Hello Kitty. She's pink and
you know she could never open up a can of Whup-ass on anybody.
This dog must have lived there and I guessed that I was
the first foreigner he'd ever seen. He wanted to protect
his territory from me, the strange intruder. Anyway, I noticed
his open cage nearby but he had no immediate plans to go
back there. He continued to bark that little-dog bark. This
continued for several more minutes. The vet ignored us completely;
he was still talking to my friend despite the near deafening
noise. I kept thinking that he'd tell the dog to shut up.
He didn't. The dog was beginning to slow down on the barking
when Yoko decided to stick his little head out of the box
to see what the hell was going on. I was worried the bird
would freak out when he saw the dog but he just gave the
dog a one-eyed stare. The dogs' eyes met Yoko's little,
black chicken eye. For a moment it was quiet. Excitedly,
Yoko sent his yellow head-feathers into the air. This was
enough to send that dog through the roof. No doubt, this
dog had never seen an American or a bird in "his" office
so, alarmed, the dog does what a frightened dog does. The
pink dog attacks me!
He grabbed the ankle of my pants in his mouth and began
to shake his head. Then he started doing this Great white
shark impersonation, teeth bared as his entire body slid
back and forth across the floor. I look up and still, THE
VET SAYS NOTHING! It was like those stupid shows, "When
Animals Attack!" only this episode would have been themed
"The Short Man Complex". This continued for what seemed
like ten minutes while my friend now emotionally waved her
arms about as she spoke to the doctor.
Finally, the vet waved at me to follow him. He had agreed
to help us. We walked to a nearby table and I gave him a
note with the antibiotic name and dosage I had gotten from
Curtis. The vet prepared an injection while I got ready
to hold the bird still for it. Thankfully, Yoko didn't squirm
which was a good thing since I STILL HAD A PINK DOG ATTACHED
TO MY ANKLE! After the injection I let Yoko out of the towel
while he composed himself on the table. Despite the trauma
the bird let the vet hold and pet him for a moment. I was
relieved and hopeful. I looked down; my parasite still had
its teeth in my pants. He was on a break and was no longer
thrashing back and forth. His eyes met mine. He was kind
of cute, actually.
After many "kam-sa-nee-da"'s and many deep bows to the man
that helped us, I tried to pay for our visit. The vet refused
to take any money. The pink dog let go of my pants. Jenny
drove me and my bird in a box home. Yoko got better. Three
weeks later I bought the most beautiful, expensive pastries
I could find and took them to the vet. I gave him a note
my friend/manager had helped me write. It thanked him for
his kindness and for saving my pets life. He was speechless
and tried at first to decline the box from the bakery but
he finally accepted it. I was greeted by Pinky. Of course
he barked like a maniac. But this time he did not attack
me.
It is thanks to this man and his love for 'all creatures
great and small' that I currently have a parrot attached
to my head. Wait a minute, did I say, 'thank'? Now if someone
could just recommend a good therapist…
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