The World of Aviculture survives because of the deeds of special people. This page is dedicated to one of those special people, Mechele Hess, Higbee, Missouri.
Because of the extreme dedication and love this woman has for animals, feathered or furred, she salvaged three severely splay-legged quakers and didn't quit searching for a home for them until she was certain she could place all three together. Thank You Mechele -- This page is for you and your wonderful family.
The mission was to travel to Missouri, pick up three handicapped quaker parrots and return to Texas without accident, arrest, or any other major catastrophe. I travel light. One small plastic grocery bag for my clothes and a large suitcase to carry the necessities for hand-feeding a blind 7 week old Moustache 'keet, Stevie, the Wonder Bird, and a plucked naked baby cockatiel just pulled from the parents. The green pick-up truck with the Texas license plates was loaded and pointed north....mission underway.
People often ask me how I find my birds. I don't, the birds find me. Not all birds are 'throw-aways,' some just need new homes. This story happened because of a lady that has such an intense love for animals, she didn't stop looking for a home until she was certain all three could be placed together, knowing they would not survive separated due to their co-dependency. Because of Mechele, the Three MONKeteers came to Texas.
I left home about 5PM Friday evening and before I had gone two hours up the road, I broke my glasses; frames split, lenses on the floor under my feet and the accelerator. Now, these are trifocals and I'm blind as a bat without them. At least a bat has Sonar.
I made it close to Oklahoma City that night. I love this little motel, stay there a lot traveling back and forth through the midwest. There is a little junky-buy-anything-you-want store just down the road. Pick up some Crazy Glue, fix the glasses. Unloaded the truck, fed Stevie and the little 'tiel, put them nite-nite and then tried to get some sleep. Up and on the road again by 3:30AM
Not a lot open at that hour, however, I travel complete with lots of black coffee and munchies. A breakfast of potato chips and day-old coffee kept me going until McDonald's opened. Pull into the drive-thru for a sandwich and a cup of hot water to heat Stevie's formula. Next stop, gas station, fill-er up! Truck won't start...wonderful....minor little inconvenience. After much debating with all sorts of macho males hanging out in the service station, I decided my problem wasn't electrical...it was the shift lever. It wouldn't make contact in Park so the truck could start. By holding my head and mouth in a special position, saying a few choice words and tugging on the shift lever, the truck started. Off we go -- On The Road Again -- Just Can't Wait To Get On The Road Again!!
Each minor inconvenience seems to put us further behind and I really wanted to get to Missouri and back out before it was too dark. But, I was stopping every couple of hours to glue the glasses together. By now the truck smelled like I'd taken up sniffing glue for a hobby. Watch your speed, Helen...you don't need a cop sticking his nose in your window now! What is the smell going to do for the bird? Leave the windows open and cover the cages.
I drove through Kansas, up the turnpike, all the time paying attention to any potential difficulties I may have returning through this state that allows quakers only if you have a permit and permits are not available! Unique ruling. In my mind, I thought it would be OK just traveling through the state, but I didn't want to take any chances and my luck on this trip hadn't been the best! Just as I exited the turnpike at Emporia, I noticed several marked and unmarked police cars had several trucks pulled over for some sort of inspection. That was it. I decided then that I was not Dorothy, I was not traveling with a dog named Toto through Oz and we were not going home through Kansas!
By this time, I had spent all but about 4 hours driving time in fog, drizzle, and/or rain. I turned off I-35 and headed east onto I-70 at Kansas City. The fog hit me like a brick wall. I couldn't see my hand in front of my face and it had nothing to do with the lenses falling out of my glasses!! It was FOG. Fortunately the mess cleared up just about the time I headed north from the interstate toward Higbee, MO and my waiting treasures.
Many years ago I was stationed with the Army at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, but I seemed to have forgotten what wonderful roads there are in this area of the country! I slowed down considerably. The little blacktop secondary road going to Higbee is not much wider than my driveway. Hilly, crooked, narrow, winding, trees growing right up to the side of the road. There should be a law against roads like this, but then we would miss the beauty. But at this time, I wasn't interested in beauty. I was interested in making time! Every time I drove down into a valley, the fog was more dense than in the valley before.
I pulled into town, found a convenient store and stopped to use the pay phone to call Mechele for directions to her home. When I got off the phone, the clerk at the store asked if I was "One of those bird people." I said that I was and I was going to meet Mechele. He pointed outside and told me "Charles and his boy right there." I introduced myself to Mechele's husband and followed him to their home.
These are proud, down-to-earth people making do with what they have and always having enough to share with a visitor. Charles and Mechele are a young couple with two boys, and a love for animals that is immeasurable. Besides, these are "bird people." Mechele's primary concern was placing these three severely splay-legged MONKees in a home together. They had become physically and emotionally dependent on each other and she was not about to let them go until they could all go together. I would have loved to stayed for a long visit, but I would not be returning to I-70, just 30 miles down the road. I was headed for I-44, a good 2-3 hours away and it was late afternoon, still foggy and getting dark. I loaded up my precious cargo, Wiggles, Scooter, and Yoga -- three Big Green Dummies with six legs going in six different directions; I headed south and prayed!
I prayed that my glasses held together a while longer. I prayed that the truck would not break down in the middle of nowhere. I prayed that if it did, I would be on top of a hill and my phone would work. (I found my truck phone quite useless down in the Missouri Valleys.) I prayed that there would be somewhere open to get more coffee. By this time I was on a caffeine high and I did not want to get the shakes, start weaving all over the road, have a cop pull me over and smell that glue! This was the middle of Missouri and I was traveling light.....light in the head and light in the wallet.
But, stuff happens. Just about the time I thought I would be picking up I-44 at Rolla, I missed the sign and ended up headed an additional 20+ miles down the road for Dixon, MO. It has been a long time since I have traveled in that area. It was dark. I didn't recognize a thing...had no idea where I was...just keep heading southwest, Helen! Anyway I thought I was heading southwest, but after I crossed the Gascanade River three times, I was beginning to doubt my sense of directions. Actually, I was beginning to doubt whether I had any sense at all. I lived in that area of Missouri before coming to Texas in 1986 -- so much has changed.
Finally the interstate! I must have looked like many miles of bad road when I stopped for gas. The station attendant gave me TWO cups of coffee, FREE! He said I looked like I could use it. I stopped for the night near Springfield, MO. Found a really nice, 1950's vintage motel-- complete with a real bed and squeaking springs and a real blanket folded at the foot of the bed, not a stiff motel bedspread. I will admit, after opening the door to the room I did do a double check on the sign to make sure it didn't say "Bate's Motel," and I checked the shower for Janet Leigh and didn't see Anthony Perkins around anyplace -- so I unloaded. As luck would have it, my favorite restaurant, McDonald's, right across the parking lot. Feed the babies, settle in the MONKees, everybody go Nite Nite. All of this luxury for $19 per night. They just don't make motels like this anymore.
I was up and on the road again by 5AM...chips and day old coffee got me to the Waffle House in Joplin, MO. The sun still wasn't up but the places were opening for breakfast. Then it was the Oklahoma Turnpike -- watch out Texas, here we come!! Still had plenty of coffee to keep me going and plenty of glue to keep the glasses together. We were on a roll! By this time the quakers decided they were going to start talking and squawking. This went on for more miles than I care to remember. I started throwing them pieces of my breakfast sandwich hoping they would eat instead of chatter...but that didn't work...they can do both at the same time. In fact, Stevie decided to enter the competition and he started squawking as only a Moustache can squawk. There went the rest of the breakfast sandwich from the Waffle House. I wonder if that is recommended as weaning food. Stevie thought so.
Fortunately the fog lifted about 9AM, somewhere between Tulsa and Oklahoma City. There was nothing but open road between the little green truck with the precious cargo and Texas. My driveway came into view at 4PM Sunday evening. 1654 miles and 47 hours later. I was greeted by the whistles and love of the other 150 birds that call my place "home." Bo, my recently acquired blue-fronted amazon seemed a little upset with me. Wouldn't even take a peanut or piece of apple. Guess she didn't like being alone, after all, she was the newest resident and still in quarantine. Wonder who spoiled that bird! Little did I know then, that she would be dead in just over 12 hours. Necropsy declared the cause of death due to hemorrhaging in the brain.
Can't say I'd do this every week, but, there is a blue and gold macaw with a scissor beak in the Northwest somewhere....a blue-fronted amazon needing a new home somewhere near St Louis....the list never ends.
Accidental Aviculturist
A dear friend (Thank You, Mariette) referred to me one day as "The Accidental Aviculturist." I certainly did accidentally get into aviculture.
"You're a nurse, I've got a young budgie that fledged with a broken wing. He is being bullied by his clutch mates and he will never make it in the flock." I took a quick look at little "Bubba" with a massive portion of his breast muscle missing and a little wing drooping. I took Bubba home, set him up in a quickly designed cage for a handicapped budgie and then searched for my dictionary to look up the meanings of "fledge" and "clutch."
Birds were not my field of expertise. In fact, I didn't have any birds. As a child I had probably starved my quota of budgies and canaries, unknowingly of course, but I wasn't a "bird person." My thing was dogs. Any stray had a home. But, to a local breeder of the little blue budgie, it was my ability as a Registered Nurse that caused him to bring me together with Bubba.
Little Bubba thrived and I sought out a companion (by this time Bubba had become a well defined female.) I called around looking for another handicapped budgie. Soon the phone was ringing -- pet shops with finches missing feet, lovebirds missing toes; budgies with broken legs and wings; cockatiels in all sorts of disrepair. People would call or stop by the house with what was left of the cat-vs-bird, dog-vs-bird, kid-vs-bird conflicts. Winter was here and feathered tykes came in with frost-bite and missing toes. A few of the breeders in the area would call me to pick up splay-legged youngsters or birds with missing beaks or hens that had paralysis secondary to calcium depletion.
I do not live in the center of the world of aviculture and had no idea where to turn for help. But for some reason, caring for one handicapped budgie evidentially made me an "expert." By this time my bookshelves were overflowing with magazines, books and anything else I could pick up or locate regarding avian care. When the American Federation of Aviculture announced San Antonio as the site of their convention in 1997 I had been floundering with birdy hospice and rehab for a few years. I decided it was time to check out the PIJAC Certified Avian Specialist program. I really needed all the help I could get.
Not all of the birds that found their way here were due to injury. Many just needed homes. Mismatched lovebirds and birds that had lost their "pet quality," birds that had the nerve to drop seeds on the floor or make too much noise, birds that were no longer wanted by families with too little time or too little patience or expectations far too high. Some no longer fit in with the new entertainment centers or the new furniture. They came in one-by-one and two-by-twos -- looking for a home. Sometimes I would hear of a bird living in a basement, garage or shed, living on wild bird seed. I just had to check it out.
My little one bedroom house soon resembled an aviary. When friends asked me how long this "craziness" was going to last, I always responded, "Until I get my African Grey. I've always wanted a Grey." Five Grey Parrots later, I am frequently reminded of that comment.
My house and my life have changed radically since that first budgie adoption many years ago. My birds all live in the house and I live in an aviary. Living and dining room furniture, as well as carpeting, have been replaced with ceiling-to-floor, wall-to-wall caging. Electric space heaters replace the old unvented gas heaters. Humidifiers and two large air cleaners have been added, along with full spectrum lighting -- much to the delight of the electric company. Swings, colorful chains and ladders hang from the ceiling hooks were my plants once lived. Jungle gyms and T-stands are set in every empty space and the vacuum has found a permanent home in the middle of the floor. A bird room complete with its own kitchen was added to the front of the house and an outside aviary was recently completed. My neighbors have stopped asking me what I'm doing when the see me unload rolls of cage wire, 50-pound sacks of feed, bags of pine shavings and bales of straw. And the men at the carwash on Saturday morning just look the other way when I back my truck in the stall and start unloading a truckload of cages to wash.
I have many new friends: owners, dealers and sales people at he feed stores, petshops, farmer's suppliers and cage makers. My phone book is in alphabetical order by bird, not by the owner or breeder.. When the newspaper arrives, I immediately open it to the pet section in the classifieds, looking for more "throw-aways." The only recipes I clip and save are the ones for bird food and treats. But, one of the biggest changes came about the day I put the computer in the bird room, got on line and learned to "surf the net" looking for other bird people to help me with my projects.
And seldom a week goes by without hearing another unbelievable reason for throwing out a feathered companion. All of my life I have heard, "One man's junk is another man's treasure." This is so true. One family's throw-aways are my Cast-Away Treasures. (Thanks Marianne & The Jersey Gang for that delightfully descriptive term.)
"You're a nurse, I've got a young budgie that fledged with a broken wing. He is being bullied by his clutch mates and he will never make it in the flock." I took a quick look at little "Bubba" with a massive portion of his breast muscle missing and a little wing drooping. I took Bubba home, set him up in a quickly designed cage for a handicapped budgie and then searched for my dictionary to look up the meanings of "fledge" and "clutch."
Birds were not my field of expertise. In fact, I didn't have any birds. As a child I had probably starved my quota of budgies and canaries, unknowingly of course, but I wasn't a "bird person." My thing was dogs. Any stray had a home. But, to a local breeder of the little blue budgie, it was my ability as a Registered Nurse that caused him to bring me together with Bubba.
Little Bubba thrived and I sought out a companion (by this time Bubba had become a well defined female.) I called around looking for another handicapped budgie. Soon the phone was ringing -- pet shops with finches missing feet, lovebirds missing toes; budgies with broken legs and wings; cockatiels in all sorts of disrepair. People would call or stop by the house with what was left of the cat-vs-bird, dog-vs-bird, kid-vs-bird conflicts. Winter was here and feathered tykes came in with frost-bite and missing toes. A few of the breeders in the area would call me to pick up splay-legged youngsters or birds with missing beaks or hens that had paralysis secondary to calcium depletion.
I do not live in the center of the world of aviculture and had no idea where to turn for help. But for some reason, caring for one handicapped budgie evidentially made me an "expert." By this time my bookshelves were overflowing with magazines, books and anything else I could pick up or locate regarding avian care. When the American Federation of Aviculture announced San Antonio as the site of their convention in 1997 I had been floundering with birdy hospice and rehab for a few years. I decided it was time to check out the PIJAC Certified Avian Specialist program. I really needed all the help I could get.
Not all of the birds that found their way here were due to injury. Many just needed homes. Mismatched lovebirds and birds that had lost their "pet quality," birds that had the nerve to drop seeds on the floor or make too much noise, birds that were no longer wanted by families with too little time or too little patience or expectations far too high. Some no longer fit in with the new entertainment centers or the new furniture. They came in one-by-one and two-by-twos -- looking for a home. Sometimes I would hear of a bird living in a basement, garage or shed, living on wild bird seed. I just had to check it out.
My little one bedroom house soon resembled an aviary. When friends asked me how long this "craziness" was going to last, I always responded, "Until I get my African Grey. I've always wanted a Grey." Five Grey Parrots later, I am frequently reminded of that comment.
My house and my life have changed radically since that first budgie adoption many years ago. My birds all live in the house and I live in an aviary. Living and dining room furniture, as well as carpeting, have been replaced with ceiling-to-floor, wall-to-wall caging. Electric space heaters replace the old unvented gas heaters. Humidifiers and two large air cleaners have been added, along with full spectrum lighting -- much to the delight of the electric company. Swings, colorful chains and ladders hang from the ceiling hooks were my plants once lived. Jungle gyms and T-stands are set in every empty space and the vacuum has found a permanent home in the middle of the floor. A bird room complete with its own kitchen was added to the front of the house and an outside aviary was recently completed. My neighbors have stopped asking me what I'm doing when the see me unload rolls of cage wire, 50-pound sacks of feed, bags of pine shavings and bales of straw. And the men at the carwash on Saturday morning just look the other way when I back my truck in the stall and start unloading a truckload of cages to wash.
I have many new friends: owners, dealers and sales people at he feed stores, petshops, farmer's suppliers and cage makers. My phone book is in alphabetical order by bird, not by the owner or breeder.. When the newspaper arrives, I immediately open it to the pet section in the classifieds, looking for more "throw-aways." The only recipes I clip and save are the ones for bird food and treats. But, one of the biggest changes came about the day I put the computer in the bird room, got on line and learned to "surf the net" looking for other bird people to help me with my projects.
And seldom a week goes by without hearing another unbelievable reason for throwing out a feathered companion. All of my life I have heard, "One man's junk is another man's treasure." This is so true. One family's throw-aways are my Cast-Away Treasures. (Thanks Marianne & The Jersey Gang for that delightfully descriptive term.)
Holly's Christmas Adventure
Christmas Eve, 1998, I was loading the truck, about to deliver Santa packages to some of my best feathered friends. I had assembled some beans/pasta/rice mixes and other goody assortments and stored them in the refrigerator in the bird room -- ready for Christmas Eve delivery.
As I was unloading the refrigerator and loading the truck (this Parrot Santa doesn't have a sleigh -- but a green truck pulled by an Ram called Dodge), Holly blasted out the front door. She was merely a shadow off into the 7PM darkness and the unseasonably below freezing weather.
Three years ago Holly was born between Christmas and New Year's Day and was dropped off at my front door, eyes barely opened, by the contractor that built my birdroom. His cat had three kittens and all were frozen to death but this one and the mom had abandoned it. So, off to the feed store to get a nursing bottle and kitty replacement milk. Before Holly was 6 weeks old she was traveling to Florida on vacation with me -- slurping from her bottle all of the way. Traveling with us was a severely splay-legged cockatiel, Scooter. Most of the way, Holly and Scooter were sharing my lap and Scooter was serenading her with his wonderful whistling talents.
Holly became a birdroom fixture, sleeping in or on an old cage or wooden crate on top of the quaker cage -- brave cat!! Holly has managed to bite or scratch every human being that even tried to come in contact with her, including me. The vet doesn't care if she ever comes back -- he must have tasted extremely good because she took a chunk from his hand. She earned her name, The Cat From Hell. But, she also earns her keep in this zoo due to her extreme ability to mouse. She is definitely not what you would call a "companion" cat, but she is a "fixture" in this place.
Back to Christmas Eve, 1998. The last I saw of Holly was the little white tip of her tail disappearing into the darkness. I walked the neighborhood, shaking her treat can, calling loudly, "Holly, Baby Holly." (There is a little melody that goes with that along with a verse or two, but I will not make a bigger fool out of myself by going into all of it here!)
Off to deliver my Santa goodies, knowing Holly will be on the porch when I come home. Leave the porch light on, put a rug on the concrete steps, leave some food and water. Holly will find it.
10PM, Christmas Eve -- No Holly. I'm up and down the streets again singing, "Holly, Baby Holly." Leave the light on -- put out another rug and her box....she will be there in the morning.
6AM, Christmas Day -- No Holly. Up and down the streets in the truck, singing, "Holly, Holly, Baby Holly." Shaking her treat can from the truck window -- looking for squashed gray and white cat, commonly referred to as "road pizza." No Holly. I'm looking more and more like something left over from a wild Christmas Eve party.
10AM, Christmas Day -- Off to visit friends and have Christmas dinner and gifts with them...knowing that it was warming up and Holly will come out of hiding and be home when I get there.
2PM, Christmas Day -- No Holly. Back up and down the streets. Now kids are out playing with new toys -- alert all the kids in the neighborhood that Holly is missing. Go to the other side of town and look. "Holly, Holly, Baby Holly." Call the police. Go to the computer and make up posters to distribute when stores open in the morning.
8PM, Christmas Night -- Just completed making more sweet potato, cooked apples and pecan/walnut treats for the birds. How I miss Holly! How can it be Christmas when a cat with the name HOLLY is missing! Where is Holly?
No room for the mixture in the refrigerator in the kitchen -- so take it to the bird room. At 8:30PM, I opened the door to the refrigerator in the bird room and
MERRY CHRISTMAS
Out jumps the Cat From Hell -- Holly, Holly, Baby Holly!!
Actually, it was warmer in the refrig than it was outside the night before. Holly had curled up on the back shelf of the refrigerator and spent her Christmas Day shut into the darkness. She did look a little wobbly and terrified. Holly, the cat that hasn't needed anyone or accepted any human companionship now strongly resembles "velcro." She is by my side, under my feet, and in my way -- and it is indeed a VERY HAPPY HOLIDAY SEASON
As I was unloading the refrigerator and loading the truck (this Parrot Santa doesn't have a sleigh -- but a green truck pulled by an Ram called Dodge), Holly blasted out the front door. She was merely a shadow off into the 7PM darkness and the unseasonably below freezing weather.
Three years ago Holly was born between Christmas and New Year's Day and was dropped off at my front door, eyes barely opened, by the contractor that built my birdroom. His cat had three kittens and all were frozen to death but this one and the mom had abandoned it. So, off to the feed store to get a nursing bottle and kitty replacement milk. Before Holly was 6 weeks old she was traveling to Florida on vacation with me -- slurping from her bottle all of the way. Traveling with us was a severely splay-legged cockatiel, Scooter. Most of the way, Holly and Scooter were sharing my lap and Scooter was serenading her with his wonderful whistling talents.
Holly became a birdroom fixture, sleeping in or on an old cage or wooden crate on top of the quaker cage -- brave cat!! Holly has managed to bite or scratch every human being that even tried to come in contact with her, including me. The vet doesn't care if she ever comes back -- he must have tasted extremely good because she took a chunk from his hand. She earned her name, The Cat From Hell. But, she also earns her keep in this zoo due to her extreme ability to mouse. She is definitely not what you would call a "companion" cat, but she is a "fixture" in this place.
Back to Christmas Eve, 1998. The last I saw of Holly was the little white tip of her tail disappearing into the darkness. I walked the neighborhood, shaking her treat can, calling loudly, "Holly, Baby Holly." (There is a little melody that goes with that along with a verse or two, but I will not make a bigger fool out of myself by going into all of it here!)
Off to deliver my Santa goodies, knowing Holly will be on the porch when I come home. Leave the porch light on, put a rug on the concrete steps, leave some food and water. Holly will find it.
10PM, Christmas Eve -- No Holly. I'm up and down the streets again singing, "Holly, Baby Holly." Leave the light on -- put out another rug and her box....she will be there in the morning.
6AM, Christmas Day -- No Holly. Up and down the streets in the truck, singing, "Holly, Holly, Baby Holly." Shaking her treat can from the truck window -- looking for squashed gray and white cat, commonly referred to as "road pizza." No Holly. I'm looking more and more like something left over from a wild Christmas Eve party.
10AM, Christmas Day -- Off to visit friends and have Christmas dinner and gifts with them...knowing that it was warming up and Holly will come out of hiding and be home when I get there.
2PM, Christmas Day -- No Holly. Back up and down the streets. Now kids are out playing with new toys -- alert all the kids in the neighborhood that Holly is missing. Go to the other side of town and look. "Holly, Holly, Baby Holly." Call the police. Go to the computer and make up posters to distribute when stores open in the morning.
8PM, Christmas Night -- Just completed making more sweet potato, cooked apples and pecan/walnut treats for the birds. How I miss Holly! How can it be Christmas when a cat with the name HOLLY is missing! Where is Holly?
No room for the mixture in the refrigerator in the kitchen -- so take it to the bird room. At 8:30PM, I opened the door to the refrigerator in the bird room and
MERRY CHRISTMAS
Out jumps the Cat From Hell -- Holly, Holly, Baby Holly!!
Actually, it was warmer in the refrig than it was outside the night before. Holly had curled up on the back shelf of the refrigerator and spent her Christmas Day shut into the darkness. She did look a little wobbly and terrified. Holly, the cat that hasn't needed anyone or accepted any human companionship now strongly resembles "velcro." She is by my side, under my feet, and in my way -- and it is indeed a VERY HAPPY HOLIDAY SEASON
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