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Until my father died last year from cancer, the worst thing that had ever happened to me was the loss of my cockatiel, Andre, when I was 15. I had always refused to clip his wings, and he took the opportunity to fly out an open door into mid-December weather. He was probably killed within a few minutes by a hawk. That, or he froze to death in the sub-zero temperatures we experienced that night. I was devastated and for years would think of that goddamn bird every time I saw a cockatiel at a pet store. I’d had a few other cockatiels since Andre, but none of them quite measured up to his standard.
About 20 years later, I was living in a large city in the Midwest and finishing my graduate work. It was late summer, and my girlfriend and I were invited to a party at our friend Tony’s house. When we arrived on his street, we saw a small crowd gathered under a large tree. One fellow was holding a garden hose, and everyone was looking into the tree. It turns out that a kid who lived across the street from our friend had left his front door open, and Larry the cockatiel had taken off. He was now perched at the top of this enormous tree, squalking and whistling and shouting “pretty bird” every so often. The poor kid was crying, and the entire family was unable to figure out how to get the bird down. The garden hose was apparently part of the effort, but aside from that the family seemed stumped.
There was nothing we could do to help. We walked over to our friend’s house and camped out in the backyard. We drank a few beers and grilled burgers, but I could not stop looking across the street at the family as they continued to call for their bird. I was getting increasingly agitated and was not having a single moment of fun. After about half an hour, Larry flew from the tree, darted over our friend’s house, and landed in a tree just over the fence. He was at least 30 feet from the ground, but this tree -- unlike the other one -- had a good lattice of branches, and I was pretty sure I could get to him if I tried. Of course, I hadn’t climbed a tree in at least 15 years, but I really wanted to rescue that bird.
When my wife returned from a quick trip to Tony’s kitchen, I was halfway up the tree. A small crowd of buzzed party-goers joined the bird’s family underneath me. Larry continued twittering nervously, but I somehow managed to get within six feet of him before I ran out of branches to step on. After five minutes of patient coaxing, though, I persuaded Larry to hop down to me. He looked a bit confused and surprised to see someone there with him, but I grabbed him and wrapped him up in a light sweatshirt while someone retrieved a ladder.
Back on the ground, I made the kid promise to keep a better eye on his bird. I told the story about Andre, and I told him about how I’d never forgiven myself for losing him. The kid was only nine or ten years old, though, and he was more relieved than anything to have his own bird back. He seemed not to appreciate the significance of the advice I was offering him.
A few months later, I heard that Larry had escaped again, this time for good.
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