One Angry Bird (Just a bit of Fluff)

Billie the lovebird had seemed a bit off his feed lately. Not literally, he was eating well but seemed to spend a lot of time in one corner of his cage. Like all lovebirds he’s also subject to episodic hormonal issues, much of which includes falling in love with various objects -- a new toy, a specific perch, a dishtowel, whatever, and regurgitating on it to show his affection. He’d seemed to be doing more of that lately. Moreover, a small bald patch appeared on his head, and I thought he was scratching and rubbing more than usual.


So a trip to the local U’s small and exotic animal vet department.


The first challenge was getting him there. I thought about buying a small travel cage, but they’re obscenely pricey. Maybe I could make one. Then I realized we had an old small clear plastic carry cage with vents at the top, bought years ago for fancy rats we once had. I cleaned it out and put him in, to see if he would panic. He didn’t. First he was curious, then annoyed. But not upset. So we tried it a few times, in and out, carried around the house. It would do.


The day came and I put him in, wrapped it in a towel, and out into the garage on a cold March morning. He was not happy with the odd noises and the sensations as the car moved along, but every time I called his name he would answer. A good sign.


At the vet I set him on the counter and uncovered the cage briefly, to the “aahs” and “how cutes” of the reception staff, then re-covered it as Bill became a bit restless. The paperwork completed, we were off to the exotic animal waiting room, away from barking dogs. A few minutes later to an exam room, where a 4th-year vet student took down the vitals. Then the vet came in.


I’d made a big deal about telling everyone Billie’s wings are not clipped, lest he burst out and fly around the room. The vet, a young mustachioed guy, smiled and said, “no bird is a match for the towel.” He wrapped said towel around his hand, reached in, and grabbed Billie, holding him firmly but gently. Billie chewed at the towel a bit, then seemed to abandon that as a bad job, but he was obviously irked. His eyes flashed, about all he could do. The vet knew his job.


“These fellows have really strong personalities and opinions,” the vet mused. No kidding. He poked and prodded, spread feathers and wings, shone lights in Billie’s eyes and down his throat. What angry eyes you had, little bird. The bald spot, he told me, seemed to be from something sticky that Billie had tried to preen off (maybe some regurgitation junk), just a bit of annoying fluff. He checked for mites just to be sure (none). The increased regurgitation and the episodic changes to his voice were nothing more than signs of maturity, and would ebb and flow with the seasons. At 3 years our bird was just entering full adulthood. The vet put Billie in a metal container sort of like a collander with a lid, and set it on a scale. “49 grams. Good.” And so went the rest of the exam. Turns out we have a perfectly healthy and feisty lovebird. “Oh and one more thing,” the vet said. “We’ll assume he’s male, but you might want to watch for an egg -- these things are so hard to be sure of with lovebirds.”


The ride home seemed easier, and Billie didn’t seem much upset. When we got home and I opened the carry cage, he walked cautiously out, then perched on top. He flew a bit around the kitchen and seemed to perch just out of my reach and stare at me. But he climbed willingly onto my finger and let me put him in his big cage.


Watch for eggs, hug? Good thing he/she has an androgynous name.