The Parrot Who Owns Me: The Story of a Relationship - Softcover

Burger, Joanna

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0375760253 ISBN 13: 9780375760259

Publisher: Random House Publishing Group, 2002

Synopsis

Seventeen years ago, when she adopted a neglected, orphaned thirty-year-old parrot named Tiko, the internationally renowned ornithologist Joanna Burger entered one of the most complex relationships of her life. Sullen and hostile when he entered Dr. Burger’s home, Tiko gradually warmed up, courting her during mating season, nursing her vigilantly through a bout with Lyme disease, and for a while even fighting her husband for her attentions. In time theirs was a relationship of deep mutual trust.

The Parrot Who Owns Me is Joanna and Tiko’s story, as well as the story of the science of birds, and of parrots in particular. Woven into the narrative are insights and fascinating revelations from Dr. Burger’s work—not only about parrots, but also about what it means to be human.

About this title

About the Author

Joanna Burger, a distinguished professor of Biology at Rutgers, has authored two academic books on bird behavior, and has written five books for lay readers, two of which she co-authored with her husband, Muchal Gochfeld, a professor of environmental and community medicine at Robert Wood Johnson Medical School. They live in Somerset, New Jersey.

From the Inside Flap

Seventeen years ago, when she adopted a neglected, orphaned thirty-year-old parrot named Tiko, the internationally renowned ornithologist Joanna Burger entered one of the most complex relationships of her life. Sullen and hostile when he entered Dr. Burger's home, Tiko gradually warmed up, courting her during mating season, nursing her vigilantly through a bout with Lyme disease, and for a while even fighting her husband for her attentions. In time theirs was a relationship of deep mutual trust.

The Parrot Who Owns Me is Joanna and Tiko's story, as well as the story of the science of birds, and of parrots in particular. Woven into the narrative are insights and fascinating revelations from Dr. Burger's work—not only about parrots, but also about what it means to be human.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1: In Springtime His ThoughtsTurn to Love

My parrot, Tiko, didn't court me until five years into our relationship. I knew how attached he was to me, but it came as a complete surprise when one morning in early April his behavior toward me suddenly changed. I found his diminutive brightly feathered self on my bed, insistently poking his head under my hand to solicit preening. In the past, he'd had the good manners to perch on the banister outside the bedroom, patiently watching me sleep and waiting until I stirred before coming in for his ritual morning preening, which had typically lasted five to ten minutes.

That morning Tiko gently picked at my cuticle and fingernails with his tongue and beak for two hours while I drifted in and out of sleep, dreaming of jungles, jaguars, and brilliantly colored parrots flitting through the forest canopy. After breakfast, bleary from interrupted sleep, I started work. I'm a biologist, a professor at Rutgers University, and my specialty is ornithology. Tiko is a Red-lored Amazon, a distinguished member of a widespread Central American species. He has taught me a tremendous amount about bird behavior, but that's not why I have a perch for him in my home office. I enjoy his company, and usually he's a most considerate companion, valiantly standing guard over me, a silent sentinel, occasionally emitting a warning cry to protect me from the hawks he sees circling outside our picture window in Somerset, New Jersey.

But that spring morning, Tiko flew from his perch in my office, landed on my computer keyboard, and stomped over the keys, forcefully nudging my fingers away from their task. Even pinyon nuts, his favorite treat, did not deflect his desire; within moments he was back at my side. He began to make low mewing and moaning sounds that I hadn't heard before, while gazing pleadingly into my eyes. When I looked away, his mews and moans intensified until I reestablished eye contact. He gently nipped me with his beak-a kind of parrot kiss called "billing"-which I recognized from observing wild birds. He put his head flat against the desk, exposing his neck and hiding his beak.

I massaged the creamy skin on his nape, through feathers that are a pale sagebrush color tinged with electric blue. His skin is softer than a newborn baby's and very warm to the touch. Exposing his nape is a gesture of complete vulnerability: hawks and other predators target it for the kill.

After a few days of this, my husband, Mike, who has a Ph.D. in biology as well as being an M.D., and I suspected that Tiko was exhibiting classic male courting behavior. Our suspicions were confirmed when he began to scour the house for nest sites. He inspected the dark tight spots beneath our armchairs, couch, and television, behind books in the bookshelves, between the file cabinet and the daybed where I work in my office. Silent and intent, he spent only a minute or two in each place before flying back to stomp over my keyboard and nuzzle my hand.

I knew my parrot and I were close, but just how close, I was about to discover. Tiko finally chose the narrow slot under the credenza for what turned out to be "our" nest. The credenza is made of reddish cherry wood, about five feet long and waist high, with three low doors that open to cupboards, and drawers for silverware and napkins. Its bottom is a scant two inches off the floor. Tiko scrunched almost flat on his stomach to slither underneath it, and huddled there for long periods. God knows what he was thinking. When I ventured near, he gave a guttural cry.

"Hi, sweetie! What are you doing?" My voice held the lilting tone I would use with a five-year-old child. Even though Tiko was entering middle age-thirty-five years old in 1990, when this occurred-he responded well to being talked to and treated like a child. And, as we'll see, his behavior and intelligence were remarkably like a precocious three-year-old's.

That was, of course, before he became the hombre of the house, the passionate lover, the Don Juan of Somerset. His cries grew louder and he started growling, which sounded like the distant lowing of cattle. He peeked out from under the credenza, fixed me with his eyes, moaned enticingly, and ducked back into the darkness. He dashed to my toes, which he maniacally preened, hopped around my feet, then scooted back to the nest.

I knew from observing parrots both in the wild and in the lab that he was exhibiting what we ornithologists call "male nest-showing" behavior. I once watched this ritual in La Selva, a Costa Rican rain forest. Mike and I were on our way to the dry tropical forests of Palo Verde to study vigilance behavior in basking Black Iguanas, but we couldn't resist a quick detour to check up on Tiko's wild brethren.

We stayed at a research station run by the Organization for Tropical Studies (a consortium of universities), on whose board I served. Our spartan wood cabin was nestled into the edge of the jungle. We lit mosquito coils and settled into our bunk-bed cots, which were attached to the walls and so couldn't be pushed together. We lay under thin sheets, talking, as we always do, about the day, before drifting off to sleep.

We rose early to avoid the heat and made our way slowly along a winding path. The lowland tropical rain forest was thick with layers of vegetation. A rich leaf litter covered the jungle floor, the trees rising out of it tall and dense. We kept our eyes peeled for the deadly Fer-de-lance, one of the most feared and dangerous snakes in Central America and tropical Mexico. Unlike other vipers, which retreat when approached, the Fer-de-lance will strike if disturbed. Its dark mottled pattern blends perfectly with the jungle floor. We took our time, stopping now and then to focus our binoculars on the birds that fluttered through the canopy.

We walked for a couple of hours, often stopping to watch manakins, warblers (some of the same species that migrate north), brightly colored tanagers. When we were about three miles in, the dense forest opened and we found ourselves on the edge of a clearing where a storm had felled the larger trees. After the jungle gloom the clearing was light and airy; the early slanting sun created a patchwork brightness over the jumble of snags and green shoots. We smelled decaying undergrowth, wet leaves, and the sweet odor of rotting figs strewn near us on the ground. The figs were brownish-black, smaller and less fleshy than our cultivated varieties, a favorite parrot food. Some of my colleagues have tried them; they're less sweet than our cultivated varieties. But if you were starving, they'd do quite nicely. The perfume of rainy-season flowers was heavy in the air and hummingbirds hovered at the lovely Heliconia, or Bird of Paradise, with its twisting yellow blooms, and the bromeliads that wound through the canopy, their leaves festooning the treetops.

The drone of cicadas was suddenly broken by the screeches and calls of two dozen parrots flying overhead. Each mated pair in the flock flew only a few inches apart, moving at great speed in perfect tandem. The birds were compact green missiles: their blunt green tails extending behind them gave them the appearance of powerful arrowheads, perfectly suited for flight, unlike their stubby, toppling gait on the ground. Their journey was filled with a loud chatter that took me back to Tiko. A pang of longing for him mingled with delight for his wild brethren, flying free in search of fruit and fresh blossoms.

Mike and I slipped into the shadows at the edge of the clearing and sat on a fallen log, hidden by the broad leaves of a banana tree. A pair of parrots peeled off from the flock, swooped down, and landed on a snag at the edge of the clearing. We wondered fleetingly if a hole in the dead tree was an old nest site of theirs. Wild parrots are shy; if they had known we were there they would have melted into the wall of green, but they were unaware of our presence. Parrots have sharp sight and hearing but a poor sense of smell, so all we had to do was keep quiet and still to remain undetected. Mike and I grasped hands in excitement.

It was very still in the clearing. The female stood coyly silent and immobile. She watched the male sidestep with a slight bobbing motion of his head; his lead leg extended like a dancer's along the branch on which they were perched. With a backward glance at her, he hopped down to a small opening in the trunk of the tree. He turned his head from side to side, then pecked tentatively at the hole's edge, dislodging a small piece of bark, which he flung over his shoulder, giving him the opportunity to glance back at his mate, who was watching his every move. He walked slowly back toward her, his head held low, neck feathers slightly erect, just the way Tiko would approach me during our courtship seasons. By the time he reached her, his bill was tucked neatly under his chin and his eyes were half closed.

The pair was silent. Mike and I whispered together, marveling at how the male's behavior mirrored Tiko's when he approached me for preening. The pair must have been well established or the male would not have placed himself in such a vulnerable position. How similar to human beings! I glanced at Mike, remembering the heady but often tense first years of our marriage, as we built the bond of trust that these wild birds displayed.

With a sideways glance the female turned toward the male and began to tentatively preen his neck feathers. He lowered his cream-colored eyelids until we glimpsed only a sliver of his yellow irises through our field glasses. Soon, the female swiveled her head, lifted a wing slightly, and began to run her bill through her own back feathers, indicating to him that it was his turn to preen her.

Edition details

• Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
• Publication date: 2002
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0375760253
• ISBN 13: 9780375760259
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 272