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…