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.)