Isabelle and Ellie: The Great Rivalry

This is the most sweet and innocent picture of Ellie you will ever see. A being of the heavenly realms, angel material, living among us.

It took twenty-five pictures to get this shot. Most of them look more diabolical, like this, as she tries to rip apart her 0 like a deranged feathered beast-monster
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Ellie never stops moving, never stops plotting, and most particularly she likes to pinch things. So she plots to pinch things. Everything. Humans, birds, foam zeroes, our beloved and saintly house keeper, who claims she is worse than a child. She does not pinch my mom, Grandma, whom she worships, and she does not pinch Lily, who is the size of my thumb, and yet inspired Ellie into upright sisterly behavior by chasing her across the counter one day when Ellie roamed onto Lily's radar.

Ellie likes to pinch things just to see what would happen. They aren't malicious pinches--she never draws blood. They're little pinches.

One winter day, Ellie darted away from me and tried to pinch Isabelle. She was unsuccessful, Isabelle and I were both mortified, we both recovered quickly and I grabbed the tiny truant in time.

The household discovered that Isabelle, the sweetest and most tender baby cockatoo on earth, can hold a grudge with the best of them. This came as a shock to Ellie, who is used to being chastised and then kissed and patted off to play elsewhere.

Instead, since Ellie had tried to pinch her, Isabelle wanted to pinch her back and I have never seen a more sober, more penitent version of Ellie than as the weeks that followed. She grew circumspect, vigilant, and pathetically sad to discover that pinching living things has consequences beyond time-out on a different play stand. I tried to distract her from her unhappiness with new foraging toys and lots of trick training. But Isabelle wouldn't forgive her, and Ellie seemed depressed.

A few times, Ellie sought Isabelle out for a truce. We both held our breath as she sidled up to her, and each time, Isabelle made clear her still-vengeful intentions, shaking her head angrily.

Really, I thought, concluding my Umbrella Cockatoo daughter may be the most dramatic parrot on earth. It's been four months. 

For my part, I spent months reading to both girls every morning, doling out treats for their peaceful interludes, so that they'd have to sit in some proximity to one another without violence. It semi-worked:  I became a sort of Switzerland, no bloodshed on Mom. My mom, Grandma, sent us her favorite children's books to contribute to the efforts of Mission: Impossible Operation Friendship.

And then one day last month while I was cleaning the garden room, Ellie on my shoulder and Isabelle playing next to us, Ellie hopped over to Isabelle and nothing happened. Nada. Like they were besties.

I stared at Ellie and said, "Are you sure you know what you're doing here? Why don't you come back over to me?" I offered my hand so she could hop back, but she didn't; she just hung out there. And Isabelle hung out too. For a ridiculously long time.

So I don't know if they had a chat earlier that week and nobody told me about it, or how they came to a truce, but peace was (somewhat*) forged in our little bird home.

*My cute birdies never play together without close supervision because, you know, giant pterodactyl beaks and unpredictable tempers...

I Might Teach Ellie How To Read

Not a lot keeps me up at night. I try to live a kind and ethical life, there's definitely not too much by the way of drama in my days. Ellie keeps me up though. Specifically, her brain keeps me up.

She's scary smart, and I'm not always sure what to do with that.

I feel fundamentally responsible for my birds' experiences because I am practically responsible for all of their experiences. They do not have the freedom--the agency--I have to control their lives, although in our little home, I give them as much of that as I possibly can.

If they have yummy veggies and fruits and healthy pellets each day, it's on me. If they have toys to keep them busy, kisses and cuddles and playtime, or if they sit listless and bored in their cages, it's on me. I play God to their very existence, and I approach this task, as all tasks for my sweet birds, with humor and gentle contemplation.

After all, they never asked to be born. And yet, here they are, and... it's on me.

So, Ellie's brain is a thing that keeps me up at night. If my birds were human children, Isabelle would be my whimsical daydreamer and Ellie would be a pre-med college student. She learns faster than I can figure out new things to teach her, her little eyes sparkling with delight, her butt feathers wiggling with excitement. Ellie *lives* for learning. And honestly? She's learned a lot of tricks, but every single time I teach her something new, I wonder, "How am I going to keep teaching her new things for 60 years?"

She's learned every basic color, and in two days learned to count to three--she can count lemons, oranges, and fingers. We've almost mastered 4 today.

 

Yesterday, while hiking, I decided I'm going to try to teach her to read. I've mulled this thought around for a few years, but really hashed out ideas yesterday. I stopped at Wal-Mart and stocked up on a fresh batch of foam numbers and letters.

So here's my game plan:
1. If Ellie is going to have any level of comprehension,  she'll need to know objects. I'll shorten all the birds' names to simple words, one-vowel words - Iz (Isabelle), Lil (Lily), and Ell (Ellie).  I'll teach her other objects: ball, mom, toy, bed, sofa, chair, play stand, stick, boy, girl, mima, etc.
2. I'll teach her phonics with lower case letters. The English language is unnecessarily complex. No need for capitalization.
3. I'll pair the sounds with words. "Buh! Ball!" And then we'll start spelling out the sounds, once she's mastered them, to the paired objects.

I wonder too... what's the point? Even if it worked, even if she learns to read, would she actually enjoy it? If I make books for her titled The Day Iz took Ell's Toy or The Big Treat would she find it interesting, the way stories progress and unfold? Could I create stories that would be meaningful to her? Would it be entertaining? It's an interesting question for me. I just don't know. Could an animal enjoy a story, if they understood language?

Beyond that, Ellie would undoubtedly enjoy the interaction--the process of learning. And certainly there is meaning in such fun and challenging interaction.

In Which Ellie Protests Her Life

Cockatoos are considered by many to be the hardest parrots to keep in captivity, placing owners in their own special class of crazy. They are brilliant, with the intelligence of toddlers, and their affection needs differentiate them from other parrots. Without proper mental AND emotional support, they begin to pull out their feathers, some mutilate themselves, and some die from their self-injurious behaviors. Keeping a cockatoo happy is very serious business, and failing that, can literally lead to the poor creature's death. And some cockatoos pluck for seemingly no reason at all.

Ellie is quite the spirited little elfling. I relish my own independence, it is one of the most valued traits of my life. I likewise thought independence, agency--the ability to control her surroundings, to affect her environment, to make decisions about her day and her life--might provide a layer of protection against this proclivity to pluck.

Birds are so tiny, it's easy to 'force' them to step-up, to 'force' them to go to people they don't want to visit, to grab them, to 'force' them to go into their cages, in essence, to inflict ourselves and our opinions on their tiny little bodies.

I never wanted that for Ellie. Her life (as much as possible) would be on her terms.

Because she might live up to 60 years, and because she isn't very verbal, I decided early on that I would teach her non-verbal communication, so that she could say "no" when she didn't want something. It would be a form of agency - she could shake her head and the humans in her life would understand in a very human-form, "I don't want that."

So, I set out to teach her to indicate "no."

"No" is such an interesting word. It is abstract - it is an indication of displeasure. It is not a color to select, it is not one number to choose, it is an idea. "I don't want that." And it's an idea connected to a head movement.

I wasn't sure if it would work :)

Alex, the brilliant and famous African Grey, developed a concept of zero, nothing, which, I believe, even dolphins and gorillas haven't demonstrated. Abstract concepts are tougher for animals, but large parrots are also unique.

It was also tough because I try to avoid using the word 'no' to my parrots. I redirect their behavior, put up all kinds of places where they want to play, and reward them for playing in those spots. That said, my mischievous cockatoo Ellie definitely hears the word 'no' more than my other two!

So every time I said "No" to Ellie, I also emphatically shook my head. And every time she indicated she didn't want something by her body language, I also asked verbally, "No???" and shook my head wildly, trying to pair the concepts. Honestly, she looked at me blankly like I was mentally deranged for over a year.

Then one afternoon when I was racing around the house getting ready to go somewhere and about to engage in bird-mommy failure by (the horror) placing her on a play stand without a treat, the lights blinked on in her head, like some total Helen Keller moment, and she shook her head violently, "Nooooooo!!!!!!"

We both kind of stopped and stared at each other. I blinked at her, she blinked at me, and then she shook her head again. "No. Not that perch without a treat!!!!"

I kissed her and laughed and we both shook our heads together and I got her a treat.

Ellie latched onto "No" like it was some life saver and she might drown in this ocean of humans. She shook (and shakes) her head often. "Not that toy, thanks." "I don't want broccoli right now." "Ewww bananas?! Really?!?!??" "No, I don't want to visit that person."

It's not fail-proof. Sometimes she still hunkers down on her haunches and other times she screams if she's especially mad, but it has made navigating life so much easier for both of us when I know (and to the very best of my ability, always honor) her expressions of "No."

Isabelle, Salve to my Heart

Many years ago I had a cockatoo named Sophia. She was the parrot love of my life, and I lost her unexpectedly and tragically. Losing her shattered my soul in a way I could never have imagined--her delight for life poured from her every cell, she was gentle and tender toward everyone (including other parrots). She was my constant companion in all of my activities, a sometimes-bossy observer from my shoulder, supervising my every task. Perhaps I became too attached to such a fragile creature--but with a potential lifespan of up to 60 years, I thought we would grow up--grow old--together. When I lost her, some part of my heart seemed gone forever, and I cried, missing her, for years.

Since then, and as an occasional parrot foster-mother, many precious creatures have come and gone in my life, and my own flock grew to an adorable duo of Lily and Ellie. (You can read more about my Godzilla parrotlet Lily here, and Genius Goffin's Cockatoo Ellie here.) Lily is fun and Ellie is brilliant, but nothing touched the grief I felt for my Sophia.

Until one day last July, unexpectedly, I learned that Dr. Clubb from Rainforest Clinic was seeking a home for a baby cockatoo who had been rescued from a family who couldn't care for her. She'd undergone a severe amount of medical trauma - she was now missing a foot and half plucked from months and months of unbearable physical pain, and the poor baby was only just past a year old.

Dr. Clubb posted her picture on Facebook, a baby umbrella cockatoo laying her head against the technician's chest, and the moment I saw her, I thought, "I must meet her." I called immediately. And the next day, I brought home Isabelle.

I am pretty sure I have never said the F-word as many times as I did the first month Isabelle was home. It's an involuntary word, one that's not a big part of my vocabulary.

The thing about Isabelle at first was that she'd just lost her foot and was also still a baby, so was not only bumbly from baby-ness, but also bumbly times a hundred million because she'd lost a foot AND was a baby. And to make things even worse, she'd chewed all of her wing feathers in her distress, so when she fell, she didn't glide. She fell with the most heart-wrenching thunk, and every fall could be a keel-bone (chest) fracture. And so I said the F-word a lot.

So, for the first month, Isabelle didn't actually move much. She was completely traumatized, frightened constantly by every new movement, and I kept her in a small cage with many close perches and a soft towel, so she could learn to navigate without too much pain. When she was out, my floors were covered with towels and blankets, and I never picked her up. If she wanted affection, I allowed her to come to me because 'stepping up' risked a terrible fall. Cuddles were always on her terms.

And yet, despite all of that, this parrot is the essence of love. If Lily is a sprite and Ellie is a genius, Isabelle is tender and gentle, affectionate, patient, and everything you wouldn't expect from a giant toddler-cockatoo who had experienced unfathomable pain as a baby. She has never bitten anyone. Not once, and not even when frightened.

She chatters non-stop: "What's that?" "What are you doing? Why?" "Ohhhh...." "Where are you going?" And she carries a conversation - dialogues with her can continue a fair while. She sits on my lap every day and we jabber gibberish about her morning, the weather, how much Ellie annoys her and why we must be nice to our bird-sisters.

And somehow, in caring for Isabelle, in hugging her every night before she sleeps, in listening to her sweet voice chattering about life, in the sweetness that is her very existence, my heart hurt less and less... until it didn't hurt anymore at all.

Thankful is a word that does not contain the depth of my feelings for Isabelle. Healed, maybe. My heart feels better again. And she has healed too - she gets around the house like a boss, even jumps and climbs, gets into mischief. She is always smiling, her eyes always sparkling.

I am not sure who rescued whom, but when it comes to the parrots in my life, she is my heart.

Introducing Cockatoo Ellie (aka Goober-Face aka Bugaboo)

A few years ago my mother told me my life was incomplete without a cockatoo. Having had (and fostered) cockatoos in the past, she knew exactly what she was talking about. Also, having fostered cockatoos, I wanted a little baby who knew nothing of pain or punishment, a wholly open young soul that I could abundantly wean and raise on principles of Applied Behavioral Analysis (or, positive reinforcement). Barbara Heidenreich is ever my hero, and it was my aim to have a creature who knew only love, rewards, and praise.

Enter, stage left, Ellie, a Goffin's Cockatoo. At 10 weeks of age she was already spirited, a force to be reckoned with. Confident, bold, and not an ounce of cuddly, Ellie was (and is still) easily the most challenging parrot I have ever encountered. She was smart--not just smart, brilliant, and between three feedings per day, keeping up with her mind was a challenge unto itself.

Now four, Ellie enjoys doing the things I do--she has her own keyboard and her own mouse, her own toothbrush, and she follows me around the house trying to 'help' with everything I'm working on.

Ellie is a darling when it comes to playing with her toys. Many baby birds must be shown how to play with toys, and many older birds don't play with toys because nobody shows them how to. Not so with Ellie -- she jumps in with both feet. Because she needs a variety of toys to play with every day, I often make them for her, switching up colors and materials so she always has new and engaging play activities. She tackles them with every ounce of energy brimming in her little muscles.

I also trick-train Ellie to build her confidence and establish trust. Tricks are her very favoritest games in the entire world and sometimes she refuses to budge from her play stand until we have gone through all of her best parlor tricks. The folks at the Bird-Click Yahoo Group are basically therapists for parrot mothers and every single time I had to figure out how to deal with a problem behavior (screaming, nipping, excessive distraction, EATING THE WALLS) they gave me such good advice and great new ideas for 'capturing good behavior' with treats and ignoring bad behavior--thereby extinguishing bad behavior. They also taught me all of Ellie's 'parlor tricks' and encourage trick training/clicker training to gently curb naughty behavior.

Ellie has learned all of her colors, and a fair few fun tricks, like flipping and turning, kissing and high-fives! I've also been working on teaching her numbers.

 

After four years, Ellie is still a mischievous (and well-loved) little imp. We have mostly negotiated a naughtiness-level treaty: she has toned it down to tolerable levels--and I no longer threaten to cook her. And occasionally, she rewards me with some cuddle time :)

Parrotlet Lily AKA Godzilly

My name is Jen and I live in South Florida, in a small beach town called Jupiter. I own a small law firm, have a birdy-gift Etsy store, and a Facebook page for parrot lovers to learn about parrot foraging skills. When not working hard at my little business, I spend lots of time kissing and cuddling my three cute parrots. I also have an amazing boyfriend, and even though he is not a bird person, he is the sweetest non-bird person that ever there was.

Lily is the oldest (and smallest) of my flock, a five year old parrotlet girl whose favorite pastime is blood extraction maneuvers. She looks adorable and innocent, which is part of her ploy to lure in unsuspecting humans for a nasty bite. (She is so adorable!) This is also where she acquired her nickname, Godzilly, from my friend Cynthia.

Lily is my travel buddy. She goes where I go - hiding in my purse or tucked into my shirt - and has secretly dined in some of the nicest restaurants on Palm Beach Island. She is 4" tall - the size of my thumb. Nothing frightens this parrot. Nothing.

Except, inexplicably, the ocean. I don't take her to the beach.

Lily has a variety of chirps, and I am familiar with each one. She has a happy chirp, and an anxious chirp, and a Where'd You Go? chirp, and an I'm Over Here chirp. She also has a Bird On The Ground (!!) chirp and an angry chirp, and thusly we communicate throughout the day. 

Lily has mastered The Art of Looking Pathetic When Mommy is Leaving, and this is probably why she gets to travel so much. My birds each have their own section of my bird-proof house, and are uncaged. The moment I pick up my keys, Lily belts her most anxious ever chirps and, crying, races across the floor in the teeniest, saddest steps, begging me to bring her with me. 

And it works! Even when I intend to leave her behind, it simply breaks my heart to hear her cry so, and instead I scoop her up, kiss her forehead, and tuck her into my purse. She will spend much of the day meeting, delighting and trying to bite everyone. 

When not attempting to extract blood from friends and strangers, Lily's other pastimes include: chewing on wet paper towels, eating blackberries, showering herself with the condensation on the sides of water glasses, and foraging for her food in foraging plates I make for her.