I really, I mean really did not want to take on another parrot — I’m 70 and not in the greatest health, and had a wonderful relationship with the guys who owned me up till now:
Three male Amazons (two Napes and a Blue Front) had acquired me during the decade I was doing parrot rescue (they didn’t like, but tolerated, each other. It was peaceful — they were out of their cages every waking hour, didn’t aggress on each other. Not at all. They’d reached “peaceful coexistence.”)
Then my good, longtime parrot-rescue friend Barb called me and told me that she and Bruce (her good-guy, bird-loving husband) had a problem.
So, Milo came. My dear, longtime friends Barb and Bruce, who have done great work in parrot-rescue and habitat preservation for decades, had him for the first seven years of his (Milo’s) life (do NOT, repeat NOT ever buy a parrot, especially a baby). And they had cockatoos, and Milo turned out to be violently allergic to cockatoo powder — something common to ‘toos, ‘tiels, and greys — so the alternatives weren’t good: either let him die at their place; take him to The Oasis, where he’d be in a small cage for the rest of his life with another male Amazon; or hand him off to me or someone they didn’t trust as much.
Guess what.
He’s like a big, friendly, undisciplined puppy. I love him, and he’s a pain in the ass to the other birds — wants to be friends, and won’t leave them alone. But that’s settling out now. Still, I fear for what’ll happen to him after I’m gone.
I’ve been bitten (drawing blood) as much in the past four days as in the past four years. It comes with the territory (all from my guys, expressing their disapproval of Milo’s behavior through flesh removal).
Milo is settling in, but I still have no idea about how to safeguard him and my other guys once I die.
Death doesn’t terrify me. Safeguarding my birds does.
Sharp and Pointed 