“What the hell is that?” visitors often exclaim
in alarm when they first catch sight of Rama. Conditioned
to expect a gleaming white bird with a yellow topknot when
they see a sulfur-crested cockatoo, Rama comes as a bit of
a shock. He looks like a badly plucked chicken. A few random
bits of fluff decorate his naked epidermis here and there,
and broken shafts of bigger feathers protrude from the wings
and tail. From time to time he manages to produce one or two
crooked yellow plumes where his crest should be, but these
quickly fall out. He’s not a prepossessing sight, but
he has no idea of this. He thinks he is an eagle.
Rama has Parrot Beak and Feather Disease, a virus that decimates
certain members of the parrot family both in the wild and
in captivity. He was one of several captive-bred birds lent
to me by the breeder, who had tried every mainstream remedy
to beat the disease and asked me to experiment with alternative
therapies. Nothing seemed to work. Two years later he was
the last bird standing, the others having succumbed to the
disease or to snake bite. Rama’s wife died last February,
so I brought him up to the house where he would have some
company. His home is a parrot-proof cage near the kitchen
door, well positioned to greet visitors and score snacks.
He spends his day in or on top of the cage, or hanging off
it by one foot while screaming deliriously at passers-by.
Parrots are busy birds; there is nothing sadder to see than
a spotless parrot cage. Each day is spent diligently pulling
to pieces everything within reach. At least twice daily we
clear the ground under his cage of corn cobs, eviscerated
mango pits, banana peels, apple skins, peanut shells and old
offerings reduced to microscopic components. His sturdy black
beak, capable of nipping off a finger, requires constant exercise.
An old wooden doorstop, a baby teether and a set of keys are
permanently attached to the cage, and daily offerings of hibiscus
twigs, weeds, empty cardboard boxes and junk mail are enthusiastically
welcomed. In fact, Rama is a useful security device, completely
destroying old documents as efficiently as any shredding machine.
Every once in a while he will undertake a drastic housecleaning,
dragging everything moveable to the door of his cage and flinging
it to the ground below with loud cries.
He has developed his own language over the past few months
and practices often during the day, muttering darkly to himself
when alone. At dawn he can be heard intoning what sounds remarkably
like, “Big bird big bird what a big bird.” Once
when the dogs were barking, I thought I heard a puppy barking
along with them. I rushed outside to find Daisy and Kalypso
tormenting a toad, with Rama barking away enthusiastically
from the top of his cage.
Apart from his appearance, Rama is in fact a healthy young
bird with a voracious appetite and plenty of energy. He practices
a distinctive form of Bird Yoga, stretching his wings and
legs alternately, standing on one leg, extending one wing
at a time behind his head and executing dramatic stretches
from the top of his cage. He prides himself on being able
to stretch much further than visitors believe possible, leaning
out at daring angles from the cage to pull a lock of hair
or nibble an earring. He seems to enjoy the startled shrieks
that invariably follow.
Of course, having no feathers, he has never been able to fly.
Sometimes when swinging from one toenail off the side of his
cage, he will become over-excited and lose his grip. Unable
to break his fall, he lands hard on the pebbles below. He
picks up his rotund self and staggers around in confusion
for a while until he gets his bearings, then sets off determinedly
for some distant corner of the garden. Once we found him three
metres up a bamboo trellis, where he had pulled himself up
by his beak. We have to keep one ear open all day in order
to rescue him when such a misadventure occurs (characterized
by a soft thump and a muffled squawk), because Daisy takes
far too much interest in these perambulations. She doesn’t
seem to be sure whether Rama is in fact a bird or not, lacking
as he does the usual accessories. But anything that moves
will trigger her killer instinct, so we maintain a constant
state of vigilance.
For a while he was falling off his cage almost every day,
and I finally figured out that he enjoyed being rescued and
comforted so much that he was doing it on purpose. Now we’ve
built a bamboo balcony around his cage to extend his territory
a little, and often stop by for a bit of social interaction
during the day.
If you can overlook the wrinkled bare blue skin and broken
feather shafts, Rama is quite a character. There can be nothing
softer on earth to stroke than the neck of a bald cockatoo.
The feet are black and scaly and amazingly reptilian. His
intelligent obsidian eyes miss nothing. He enjoys having his
beak stroked and ducks his head for a scratch, then extends
his right foot politely to take a proffered peanut.
Every afternoon a pair of wild pigeons drops around to scavenge
through the flotsam and jetsam of his day, finding a peanut
he has missed or a succulent leaf flung away in a temper.
He regards them with casual interest, seemingly unaware that
they are cousins. As they fly off into the jungle he continues
to tear up an old magazine, supremely confident that it takes
more than fine feathers to make a fine bird.
