Alone No More

I was 40 years old, going through Empty Nest Syndrome, recently separated, and forced into an apartment.

I missed having a schedule, someone to care for, and the rewards of loving and being loved. All that changed when I rescued Tara, my blue and gold Macaw, from the uncaring people who had her locked away in a tiny, grossly inadequate cage. Developing an optimal home for a neglected companion bird has definite rewards, but I never dreamt how my life would have to adapt or how dependent and noisy this brightly-colored creature would be.

Unlike traditional pets, Tara has her own room with features designed to help a companion bird thrive. The room has an air cleaner to control the sickeningly sweet fragrance caused only by macaw dander. Birds in the wild are exposed to hours of bright sunlight, so her “jungle” includes strategically placed full-spectrum lights. Along that jungle theme, her room has regulated heat for warmth, wood flooring for easy cleaning, tropical wallpaper, abundant plants and hanging vines for color. Her furniture is a new, powder-coated, metal cage spacious enough for her to fully flap her wings without touching the bars. Since parrots are naturally inquisitive and have intelligence very similar to a two-year-old child, each week I challenge Tara’s
mind with an assortment of different toys in her cage. In addition to her toys, when I am not home, her preprogrammed television allows her to watch Animal Planet and Discovery Channel.  Similarly, her radio lets her enjoy swaying to rock-and-roll music or practicing words while listening to talk radio.

Since I am her “flock,” she wants to be with me no matter where I am in the house. I had a shower installed that is large enough for us to take showers together. While I’m busy lathering my hair, Tara waddles around the shower floor “dancing and singing” as the water bouncing off of me soaks her to the skin. Near the dining room table, I have one spot that allows visibility throughout the entire upstairs. There, Tara has a five-foot perch that accommodates her three-foot tail and allows her to watch me whether I’m cooking in the kitchen, scrubbing floors or dusting. This perch has stainless steel food dishes and she demands to eat whatever food she sees me preparing, especially sweet potatoes, chicken legs and
spaghetti.

Whether “we” are doing chores, gardening, or driving somewhere on an errand, Tara needs to socialize and has non-stop noise to share. Her human words have a female pitch and she says “Hello Tara” in a tone that mimics the inflection of my voice. With perfect clarity she says “rock and roll” when music is playing, and “Is that good?” when given a treat. Though I never expect it to happen, when a stranger walks by the house, or if she feels neglected or frightened, she lets out a shrill, blood-curdling scream of warning at a decibel level that leaves your ears ringing. Getting used to her vocalization (and distracting her when it turns to screaming) takes practice and a lot of patience.

Admittedly, Tara is time-consuming, demanding and noisy. In fact, most everyone I know misses the charm of my feathered beauty.  Yet, when she lowers her head in
submission, lifts her wings so I can scratch the downy feathers underneath, and
clucks kissing noises at me, the peace I feel is wonderful. I no longer have an “empty nest” and I’m honored to be entrusted with the care and love of this magnificent bird.