Tag: wildlife

A Lesson in Life at the End of the Rainbow by John Zimmerman

by Guest, posted in Wildlife

The below story by guest author John Zimmerman is the second place story from our first anthology, The Dog Who Wooed at the World. For more powerful stories like this, get your copy!

I didn’t want it to die. Him to die?

I had never felt that way about the hundreds of other fish I had caught throughout my life.

Not the first time, when I was a lad at Fish-A-While Lake snuffing out the life of a sunfish at the end of a bamboo pole.

Not when my friends and I would nail freshly caught catfish to a nearby tree, thrust a knife into their heads, strip off their flesh with a pair of pliers, and then gut them and cook them over the campfire. I never for a second considered the immense pain the fishes must have felt—pain that we inflicted upon them.

Not when I brought home a stringer of Lake Michigan perch for a fish fry. Not when I caught my limit of coho from the same lake, to be eaten the next day after my mom soaked their fileted orange-red flesh in milk overnight to dampen the salmon’s strong flavor.

Nor did I care about the three other rainbow trout I caught just weeks before at the very same lake. But fearing for the suffering of the rainbow trout in front of me now, I found myself screaming, “Die already!” 

He had fought so hard to free himself from the stringer I had run through his powerful jaws after I had caught him, even as I fished on. I kept looking at him as he turned his body over and over, displaying his beautiful colors. Black spots dotted his silver flesh. A radiant pink stripe ran from tail to gill, twinkling in the late sunlight. I saw a flash of green and yellow. 

Finally, he slapped his tail furiously on the water, one last time, and died. I poked the trout with the tip of my fishing rod, to be sure. He went belly-up, leaving no doubt. I knelt on the shoreline and freed the fish from the stringer. I held the muscular, ice-cold trout in my hands and again admired his colors. This trout was painted at God’s easel. Then I dropped the fish in the water in horror and asked him to swim away.

He didn’t.

I ordered him to swim!

He didn’t.

“SWIMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!” I screamed, frightening a nearby mallard into flight.

He didn’t. The chop in the water forced the dead trout back up on the bank. I petted him like a dog.

Then I cried.

I was stunned at my response. I had never felt like a killer. Until then.

Why? I think it was not only because of the way the fish died, but how he came to die.

He was one of 2,000 rainbow trout stocked in a suburban pond and ready for the catch. The shoulder-to-shoulder trout didn’t stand a chance. A great deal of the trout chucked into the lake are caught within hours after the 5 a.m. start time. Mind you, they didn’t succumb to any Ernest Hemingways quietly flipping dry flies at the trout lurking in the deep pools of cool mountain streams winding through piney woods. No, the opening of trout fishing day at the stocked lake off the freeway finds suburbanites standing in the weeds making a fuss with worms and lures in hopes of catching trout. And most do. The trout would survive the trauma of being hauled from their hatchery hundreds of miles away, only to fall victim to a piece of bait bought at the Walmart off the busy boulevard.

My fish, the one I killed, made it past those opening days. He was a survivor. He had beat the odds and lived. He avoided attaching himself to those hundreds of baited hooks and lures. He somehow lived on in water that was far too warm and turbid for a trout to maintain life.

He was a strong fish. 

And a courageous one.

When we first met, he thought twice about taking my bait. The bobber moved a bit, then stopped. My heart started to race. My eyes locked on that round red and white plastic ball holding up my bait. The bobber moved again, this time a few feet. Then it went under, just a little. Then, a little more. Finally, the bobber was yanked out of sight. I pulled my rod back, hard. I felt resistance.

I got him!

He fought hard for his life. He zigged. He zagged. He leapt. He went deep. He leapt again. He thrashed back and forth. But the hook was too deep. The trout finally went slack, and I began to reel him in. He went into a frenzy one more time, after being pulled into shallow water and spotting the shore. Then he quit. He was just too damn tired. I reeled the trout onto the shore, freed the hook and strung him.

I was happy, at first. He was a nice fish—bigger and prettier than the other trout I had caught. I wish I had had someone to show him off to, but I was the only one at the lake that evening that by then was rapidly dying on the horizon. No one even got to see the admirable fight between me and that rainbow. 

But then it hit me. I took the life of someone so beautiful, so strong, so unique. And for what? I was thankful there was no one there to see me cry.

I didn’t know what to do with his body. I first thought of burying it. But in the end, I did what I always did with my dead fish. I brought it home to be eaten, so he did not die in vain. My wife enjoyed the rainbow trout dinner. I didn’t take a bite. I couldn’t put a fork to it after what I did. The fish made it through the opening Battle on the Rainbow Trout, only to later die at the hands of a sniper.

That trout should get a medal, posthumously, for his bravery. After all, he saved a lot of lives by his death. Lives I would have taken. Because after that day, I could never fish again.

 I learned something new about life, at the end of the rainbow.

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John Zimmerman is a retired newspaper writer and educator who lives in Carol Stream, Illinois. John has won several awards, including an Indiana Associated Press first place in editorial writing and an Illinois Press Association second place in column writing. John was also a special education teacher. As a playwright, John’s dramas and comedies have been produced in California, Michigan, New York, and Indiana. John has also published essays and poetry. When John is not writing, he enjoys spending time with family and his golden retriever. John is also a grateful cancer survivor.

Photo: Tom Koerner/U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

Nestled Hope: The Tale of a Balcony Robin by Judith Morrison

by Guest, posted in Wildlife

Guest post by Judith Morrison

It was the beginning of summer during one of our scheduled evening phone calls, when my mother first mentioned a robin was building a nest in her light fixture on the balcony.

“But I swept away the twigs the bird had started collecting,” she said. “Some of the twigs are still on the balcony floor. What a mess!” She’d have to go out and finish the sweeping later.

The following evening while on the phone with her, after going over all the horrible news events of the day, she told me that the robin came back. “The robin started building her nest in the same fixture. She’s out there now.”

“Is she using the twigs that were on the balcony floor?” I asked.

“No,” Mom said. “She’s using new material. You should see what she’s collected this time. There’s ribbon in various colors, string, pieces of what looks like hay. This time I’m going to let her build her nest,” Mom said. “I don’t have the heart to take it down.”

The robin’s persistence and dedication had paid off. “She’s a smart bird,” Mom said. I agree with her. “My balcony light fixture is the perfect spot for a nest. It’s covered to protect from the wind and rain. The light can provide warmth, and she’s away from prey. It’s perfect for a nest,” Mom added.

In the following days, my mom reported back on how the bird was progressing with nest-building. “She works so hard,” Mom said. “She doesn’t seem to leave her nest for more than 10 minutes at a time. And this nest, you should see it. It’s so tightly woven and secured around my light fixture.”

I started looking forward to the nightly robin nest-building updates. I especially appreciated it after going over all the terrible news events of the day. I noticed how my local news channel always ended their broadcast with a feel-good animal story. We’d end our conversation on a light note.

I started noticing the birds in my neighborhood: robins, woodpeckers, sparrows, magpies, and osprey. Was it my imagination, or were there more birds than usual in the neighborhood this summer? Or was I more aware of the birds because of the robin?

Either way, I looked at the robin and the other birds as a sign of hope. This was especially important because we’re in a time that feels hopeless in a lot of ways—so any sign of hope is good. I found myself wishing a bird would build a nest at my house. I had a perfect, protected light fixture on my front terrace. I’d welcome a bird who wanted to build a bird’s nest.

“Neighbors are stopping below my balcony to admire the robin’s nest,” my mom said. “They’ve been positive, except for Buddy, who doesn’t approve.”

As the hot and humid days of summer went on, my mom described the robin’s routine in more detail. “She sits on her nest all day. She seems to briefly fly away at night for no more than

10 minutes, to get food. Another robin—the father, I guess—sits perched on the balcony railing now and then.”

“But only now and then,” she repeated. “Not like my robin, who is perched on her nest all the time. I check on her every morning first thing while brewing my coffee. I quietly open the balcony door so as not to disturb her. The thing is, I don’t go on the balcony and don’t use it, as I feel I’m disturbing her. It’s her balcony now. Her home.”

The following week, my husband and I went to visit Mom. It was her birthday, so we brought lemon cake. I made tea and watched my husband sprinkle powdered sugar on the lemon cake and then cut it into three pieces.

“I don’t want any. I just ate lunch,” Mom said.

“Well, you can have your piece later,” I said.

I noticed my mother didn’t seem impressed or to be in the mood for the lemon cake, or perhaps for a visit at all. There was a lull in the conversation. It was a good time to see the robin.

“Open the door quietly,” Mom said.

I opened the balcony door and turned my head to the right, and there the robin was in all her splendour. She was big and plump, and very close. I could have touched her. The up-close view came as a shock.

“Wow,” I said. “You really are living with a bird!”

We sat in the living room and had tea and talked about birds, animals, and nature. I admire how my mom walks every day at 87 years old, as long as she isn’t in too much pain from her arthritis. We went from birds to talking about the book on her coffee table, which was about Canadian wolves.

“I’m done with it. Take it back,” she said to my husband, who had lent her the book. “Make sure there are none of my bookmarks still in it.”

Mom started to slowly get up, and so we followed her lead. We got up to collect the teacups and leave. It seemed that was enough of a visit today, and she wanted to get back to her routine… to her afternoon walk, early dinner, and quiet time—just her and the bird.

 “You can take the lemon cake back, too,” she added.

“Well, we’ll leave you your piece,” I said. With that, we left. I knew she wanted to go for a walk while it was still light out, and we were holding her up. We said our goodbyes.

Not too many days after our birthday visit, Mom said she saw baby robins. “There are two baby robins in the nest. Probably more. And one flew. I thought he was going to land on the ground, but he didn’t. He went into a tree and disappeared.”

Not many days after that, the mother and babies were both gone. Those birds, who had occupied so many evening phone conversations, were gone. The nest was empty. I was glad I was able to get such an up-close look when I did.

“I miss her. I miss hearing the chirping in the morning,” Mom said. “She was company.”

And I also missed her. I missed hearing about her and the easy conversation with my mother around her.

“But when I was sure she wasn’t coming back, I took down the nest,” Mom said a few weeks later when the subject of the robin came up.

Mom went on to describe the intricate cloth the robin had tightly woven to make her nest. My mother and I had empty nest syndrome. Through a Google search, though, I read that the robins may come back to their old nesting site next year and make a new nest. By now, during the late summer phone calls, there was a chill in the air. Autumn was on its way.

“I hope the robin returns,” Mom said.

“I hope she returns, too,” I replied.

“I guess we’ll have to wait until next summer to see,” she said.

Judith Morrison enjoys writing personal essays on travel, fashion, animals and lifestyle. She has been published in The Globe and Mail, Christian Science Monitor, and on CBC radio. Her most recent essays have appeared in Adventuress Travel Magazine, lolcomedy.com, and Dogs Today Magazine. Her blog for women, “Fun and Pampering in YYC,” is about things to do and places to go in her hometown of Calgary, Alberta.

Judith has enjoyed teaching ESL to students at various levels and with diverse backgrounds throughout her teaching career. She also likes traveling, especially in Turkey and Mexico, journal writing, and taking long walks with Samson, the Border Collie mix, and Zoey, the labradoodle.

Want to submit your own guest post about a remarkable animal? Read guidelines and submit here.

These Dive-Bombing, Deck-Destroying Bees Can Outsmart Us All

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Rescue, Wildlife

I love spring, the season of rebirth. Every day the leaves grow bigger, new flowers burst into bloom, and the yellow buzzing cotton balls known as carpenter bees dive-bomb me nonstop on my back deck. One might presume this would be quite the annoyance, and in the past, I’d have heartily agreed. Until the day I met Dandelion two years ago and fell in love.

It was late March in Virginia, where the whether changes from day to day like a wardrobe. The daffodils had already sprung up, but the crisp 40-degree winds of winter still kissed my cheeks. Hunched over almost lifelessly on my front porch one morning was a fuzzy yellow and black ball, a carpenter bee who’d crawled out to greet the sun and been stunned by the plunging overnight temperatures. He’d lost the energy to fly, and without his wings, he’d never be able to travel to his next meal.

I scooped up the creature, and he buzzed in my hands. I quickly filled an oversized Tupperware with a damp paper towel, some blades of grass, a few dandelions, and a capful of organic sugar water. I coaxed this new friend to the dish, where he immediately began sucking up the liquid with his long proboscis, resembling a miniscule winged elephant of sorts.

Dandelion, as I immediately christened him, spent about a week with me. Each morning I’d replace his supply of flowers and sugar water, and he’d lap up the beverage and spend the day sipping from the array of flowers like a wine tasting at a vineyard. He’d hang out in my lap buzzing sporadically, yet still unable to muster enough strength to take flight. While he was in my care, I read up on these fascinating insects, learning pretty early on not to fear Dandelion or others of his kind: despite their overt aggression and stalker-like behavior (anyone else been followed around your yard by a zealous bee, hovering inches from your face and staring menacingly yet adorably into your soul?), male carpenter bees can’t actually sting.

While males are out strutting their stuff, female carpenter bees, I learned, live with their sisters in sorority fashion, caring for one another and taking on specific roles within a social hierarchy to keep the nest running smoothly. And while they can sting, they only do so under dire circumstances.

Since that spring, I’ve spent hours watching carpenter bees diligently deconstruct the wooden boards in my deck, as, true to their name, they burrow into wood to nest. Listening closely, I can hear their soft scratching sounds like tiny saws. Instead of agonizing over how much putty I’ll need to fill these precisely carved tunnels, I remind myself that I’m a mere visitor here, in their home. And my deck is host to an extraordinary, unbreakable sisterhood.

If you’re still unconvinced of the magic I see in bees, consider this: researchers at Queen Mary University of London taught a group of bees in 2017 to move a ball to a certain position to access sugar water. The bees easily mastered this task, unsurprisingly. Then, when new bees were introduced to the experiment and observed their peers completing the task and being rewarded, they, too, learned to do it. But their intelligence didn’t stop there—the new bees invented more efficient ways to get their sugar fix, like picking balls that were situated closer to the target. They innovated.

These results support an earlier study that discovered that bees could learn new tasks with increasing complexity for food, and they could subsequently somehow communicate their discoveries to their friends.

Perhaps, most remarkable, however, is how bees’ social adaptation skills can measure up to, or even actually trump, our own. Bees have long been observed to perform a “waggle dance” to show other bees abundant food sources. But when a find is unappetizing, the bees do a smaller dance, or don’t dance at all. Other bees respond appropriately in either case and will even leave more crowded feeding spots for a higher quality opportunity, avoiding “maladaptive herding,” a phenomenon in which blindly following the masses results in the spread of misinformation (2020 conspiracy theories, anyone?).

To test this capability in humans, researchers devised an experiment in which participants had to choose among three slot machines, trying to win as much money as possible, while being allowed to observe other participants. The results:

“[A] challenging task elicited greater conformity and the copying increased with group size. This suggests that unlike bees, when large groups are confronted with tough challenges, collective decision-making becomes inflexible, and maladaptive herding behaviour is prominent. … [W]e should be more aware of the risk of maladaptive herding when these conditions – large group size and a difficult problem – prevail. We should take account of not just the most popular opinion, but also other minority opinions.”

Imagine where we’d be if more of us humans detected and strayed from harmful ideologies, platforms, and demagogues. Imagine if we were as discerning and skilled participants as bees are in our own democracy.

Back to that spring two years ago. One morning I came downstairs to find Dandelion zipping around his enclosure, and I knew his time had come. I picked a balmy 70-degree day and released him soaring back into the wild. His departure saddened me, but I knew it was his job to go out and pollinate the world. After all, bees are responsible for pollinating 90 percent of our food, and without them, in a reality that could be right around the corner, we’d lose half the groceries we take for granted today. I can’t imagine a bee-less world, but we’re catapulting toward it every day with our pesticides, pollution, and habitat destruction.

In the U.S., for instance, between 1947 and 2008, the honeybee population plunged from 6 million to 2.4 million, or about 60 percent. This is largely attributable to our pesticide use on massive scale. According to Greenpeace, scientists have discovered over 150 different pesticides within granules of pollen, and major corporations like Bayer and DuPont “shrug their shoulders at the systemic complexity, as if the mystery were too complicated. They advocate no change in pesticide policy. After all, selling poisons to the world’s farmers is profitable.”

Do your part to protect our pollinators. Maintain a bee-friendly yard with no pesticides. Leave the dandelions in your yard, as they are emerging bees’ first spring snack. Purchase organic produce when you can, and work to secure better access for others, especially those in food apartheids. Support an American ban on neonicotinoids, a particularly deadly class of pesticides that’s already banned in the European Union and which may be responsible for the deaths of up to up to a third of U.S. beehives. Be on the lookout for stunned bees like Dandelion in early spring, and leave out shallow bowls of water (filled with rocks) for them and other insects.

Despite their (endearing) dive-bombing and deck-destroying proclivities, bees give us life—so let’s preserve theirs.

The Story of a Little June Bug and the Woman Who Saved Him

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Rescue, Wildlife

This is a story about a little green bug—and the woman who saved his life.

In the summer of 2018, Sherrie Carter had offered up her beautiful beach home on Buckroe Beach in Hampton, Virginia, as she frequently did, to a group of volunteers from the local VegFest for a pool party. That evening, as we laughed and said our goodbyes in the front parking lot, my eye caught a glinting green beetle struggling in a spider web—the predator with her menacing fangs just inches away, preparing to descend on her new meal.

I couldn’t take it, the horror of this feast. I swept in and scooped the little beetle out of harm’s way and gently set him down in the bushes, hoping the spider would find a new victim to sustain herself when I wasn’t there to witness it. I know—we shouldn’t interrupt nature, good, bad, or ugly—but that’s who I am. The suffering overcomes me.

Later that night, the beetle had somehow managed to climb all the way up onto Sherrie’s second-floor deck and was waiting for her with a broken wing, unable to fly. Of course, within moments, the beetle was in a Tupperware with a capful of water and some fruit in Sherrie’s kitchen, because that’s who Sherrie was: she couldn’t ever turn her back on a problem, or on someone in need.

Sherrie quickly updated me with a barrage of pictures, showing the little June bug—whom we immediately and fittingly named June after the daunting, fearless protagonist of our shared favorite show The Handmaid’s Tale—in his new little home. Climbing branches, devouring blueberries, nestling among leaves. Deprived of his wings from the damage of the spider’s web, he could not survive outdoors ever again. Alongside her four felines, he would be Sherrie’s forever companion.

Pretty soon, June Bug got an upgrade: a full aquarium from the pet store. For the entire summer, Sherrie documented his progress, frequently sharing photos with me about how proud she was of the little bug who somehow climbed an entire story after losing his flight. His perseverance, his will to live, all encapsulated in such a tiny body. To most, he was just an annoying June bug, swarming in the light of our porches on warm summer nights. But behind his dazzling emerald shell, Sherrie saw so much more. To Sherrie, he was brave, determined, a survivor. He was a voracious eater whose favorite food was blueberries. He was an individual. To Sherrie, every little being was remarkable, worthy, important.

I promised her I’d write a story about little June on my blog, where I share true and remarkable animal stories with the world, but between life and moving and chores and my potbellied pig who enjoys biting holes in my drywall for fun, I never did.

And as the sweltering summer gave way to the September breeze, June Bug, as nature had always intended, finally left this Earth. Sherrie kept his little shelled body, his exoskeleton, on her condo mantle in remembrance. She shed tears. I did too.

On January 2, 2021, after an illness, Sherrie joined him, leaving me and all of those who knew her with more tears and a giant hole in our hearts. That month, as I opened her computer and begin the arduous process of digging through her files trying to make sense of what I had lost, I found a gold mine: an entire folder dedicated to June Bug, with dozens upon dozens of photographs. It was time to write.

To understand Sherrie’s remarkable relationship with such an insect, you only had to know Sherrie for a moment. I knew her for almost 13 years. As I was winding down my college career and simultaneously discovering the horrors we inflict upon the beings with whom we share our world—from dismal factory farms to barren zoo cages and bathtub-sized pools confining magnificent orcas—I plunged into the world of activism, aching for a better world. It was then, through the newly hatched advocacy group Richmond Friends of Animals, that Sherrie and I joined forces.

We attended dozens and dozens of demonstrations together over the years and plotted alongside other group members how we could overthrow the evil powers-that-be, or at least put the wicked proprietors of Alan Furs out of business. Sherrie, several other activists, and I soon became penpals of sort, emailing and texting day in and day out about our trials and tribulations of life between our monthly protests and vegan potlucks. I learned of Sherrie’s incredible heartbreaks one after another—her mother, her brother, her father, her cat Boogie (who chased balls like a puppy and suspended himself from the back door window to watch the comings and goings), her dog Jack (whom she’d plucked from a filthy hoarder disguised as a rescue operation and whisked off to the vet to have an enormous abscess removed). Yet Sherrie persevered, just like June Bug. She showed up with a smile on her face, refusing to let the ache swallow her whole.

In 2010, Sherrie was named one of Allen and Allen’s 100 Hometown Heroes for her work in animal rescue and advocacy and was presented her award at the local baseball stadium. She made no fanfare of it—that’s who she was. She was always bailing out shelter dogs from high-kill areas like Rome, Georgia, funneling funding to their medical care and even helping transport them to safety. On her computer, I’d later find files and files of folders and spreadsheets documenting the hundreds of donations and animals she’d saved.

One day last fall, I got a flood of texts from Sherrie. She’d liberated two lobsters from the grocery store because she couldn’t bear to watch them alone in that tank, awaiting their fate of being boiled alive (disclaimer: please don’t repeat this; though Sherrie’s heart was pure, her money was, of course, just going to fund their replacements in that tank). The previous year, I had conducted a lobster rescue of the great Lawrence von Croydon and released him into the Atlantic, and Sherrie wanted to do the same. Of course, being Sherrie, she leapt into action. I walked her through how to release the two crustaceans safely, all while she filled my phone with expletives about how cruelly they had been wrapped up like produce. Sherrie was nothing if not passionate about her compassion.

Like that clawed pair, so many of us owe our lives to Sherrie.

About six years ago, Sherrie started calling me her daughter. We, of course, had our own families—me with my parents in Hawaii and her with her grown step-kids—but both of us were physically distanced from our families. After both of our divorces, we were two women on our own, forging our uncertain paths forward. That shared purpose, that surrogate familial bond, meant the world to me. Sherrie was the person I called late at night as I cried lonely tears. She was the one who doled out financial advice and reminded me that I could carry on despite my doubts and insecurities. Honestly, I can’t imagine where I’d be today had I not had her by my side through several years of hardship. She was always there, without fail, for me, and for countless others—even when it took a ginormous toll on herself.

I think back about the burden she carried for me, and others, who needed her. I wish now more than anything we could all tell her how much it meant, and tell her it’s okay to rest easy now. But I know it was what she felt compelled to do with her life—to help, to serve—just like she helped June Bug.

In her final months, Sherrie and her four cats took to the road in her new RV, and she told me often that she was living her dream, like pioneer woman in Barbie dreamhouse. After years of giving and serving, Sherrie found her path, a way to nurture her own soul the way she nurtured countless others’ who crossed her path.

Managing her estate has been straining, draining, impossible. It is the futile attempt at wrapping up a life unfinished with a neat little bow. It is the water over a gas-fueled flame, a fire that yearns to keep breathing warmth into everything it touches.

So when I cry, when I want to shut down, I pull out the postcard I found in her RV, which features two prancing puppies alongside the text: “If we are ever to enjoy life, now is the time, not tomorrow or next year… Today should always be our most wonderful day.” -Thomas Dreier

Sherrie will continue breathing life into us all for years to come, to help us make each day the most wonderful day.

Our Cockatoo Died Flying Cargo. Don’t Let This Happen Again.

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Companions, Petitions

He was supposed to live 70 years. Instead, as he traveled to his forever home in paradise, a series of mistakes and, ultimately, negligence killed him.

When I was about 11 years old, my family adopted an umbrella cockatoo. Instead of resembling the mighty white birds with towering head crests soaring through the forests of Indonesia, though, he was skinny, trembling, and rather naked when I first laid eyes on him.

His pale grey torso reminded me of a turkey corpse, plucked bare before Thanksgiving dinner. But he had inflicted this damage all on his own. Before my family took him in, his first guardian, who’d had him since he first hatched, gave birth to a human child, who soon consumed all her attention. The bird was often relegated to his cage, and there, languishing in boredom and isolation, he grew neurotic and angry, quite possibly jealous of the newborn stealing away all his mom’s affection.

So this bird turned on his own flesh, plucking feathers from his chest and dancing anxiously to and fro just to release some energy.

Such behavior is all too common in the captive population of parrots worldwide. Because of captive breeding and the illegal wildlife trade, tens of millions of parrots now occupy US homes and facilities–and thousands of them end up homeless every year as they become too rambunctious and under-stimulated in a caged environment or they outlive their human caretakers.

This particular cockatoo was one such bird–but, fortunately, my mom was ready and willing to jump to his rescue.

He came into our home with the name Lilah. But at the first vet visit, we learned that Lilah was indeed a he, not a she. Yet the name remained, as it was the primary tool from the English language he’d clung to for communication with our species. We couldn’t take that from him.

“Lilah?” he’d often ask in a quivering voice, as though pleading for food, affection, anything at all.

And those things, he soon learned, he would receive in abundance. At the offset, he became my cuddlebug. We were, more or less, around the same age. As an only child, I began to see him as a bit of a younger, talkative brother–like a toddler, first learning about the world and expressing his thoughts via a series of babbles and chuckles.

One evening, I approached his cage wearing a bright red tank top and reached in for some snuggle time, as I had done dozens of times before. But this time was different. This time, he rewarded me with a sharp, deep bite to my finger. Blood immediately pooled, and I wailed in response and ran away.

At that time, I was a loud, boisterous preteen with an opinion about everything. And the vivid red hue of my shirt was like a blaring “danger” sign. I’d scared him, and he reacted the only way he knew how.

But the incident scarred me enough to keep a healthy distance from him from then forward. And in my sulky teenage years, I found myself increasingly annoyed by his calls and shrieks, natural vocalizations that are used freely by flocks of wild parrots inhabiting the jungle, but are often found to be a nuisance by those attempting to confine these exuberant birds indoors.

I’ve always loved animals, but with Lilah, I could only love him from afar.

My mom, though, never wavered in her bond with him. Despite the handful of times he’d hauled off and pierced her nose with his beak upon being frightened by a man in a baseball cap or the vacuum cleaner, she adored him.

So, naturally, as my parents planned their big move to the Big Island of Hawaii in 2014, Lilah was coming with them. My mom plotted out the magnificent habitat she’d build for him in paradise, where he could soak in the sunlight, watch the flittering yellow finches, and eat exotic tropical fruits for decades to come.

But Lilah never made it there.

Hawaii has a host of complex requirements for importing animals, and birds specifically, to prevent the spread of disease–and my mom mastered them backwards and forwards.

A quarantine for 7 days at our local vet and a mountain of paperwork: check.

As my parents prepared to depart, leaving their two dogs and Lilah at the animal intake area of the airport, I bid farewell to the bird who’d once felt a little like my nemesis during my darkest periods of teenage angst, but now, cowering in his carrier, was like a fearful little child once again.

I didn’t know then that it would be our final goodbye, but it felt peaceful, like a long-awaited truce.

“I love you,” I said.

“Lilah?” he replied.

Later that night, my mom called me from California. Unfortunately, the vet had incorrectly completed the quarantine paperwork necessary for Lilah to enter Hawaii, so he had to redo his 7-day quarantine at a vet there. My parents opted to continue on to the islands with their two dogs and pay an animal transport company a hefty sum of money to handle Lilah’s trip a week later.

He would be in good hands, they were promised. He’d be given the utmost care.

A week later, I received another call.

“Laura, Lilah’s dying. He’s dying!” My mom’s blubbering voice could hardly make out the words.

He was in her lap, having just been picked up from the airport, and was listless, lethargic, barely hanging on.

“Can’t you find an emergency vet?” I begged over the phone.

But they were in the middle of nowhere, miles and miles from anyone who could help. He died there, in her lap, moments later, after suffering a seizure.

To this day, my mom has trouble speaking about this tragedy. The sadness, the overwhelming guilt of putting her beloved companion in the hands of someone who was supposed to provide for his safety. I know it so well–I’ve been there myself.

But what happened was a string of errors my mom never could have anticipated or prevented, starting with the vet’s quarantine paperwork, which led to another crucial error: the animal transporter, who was paid to see Lilah directly onto his inter-island flight between Honolulu (the only port of entry for animals) and Kona on the Big Island.

Instead, to save money, she’d checked him into a cargo flight and left him there, where he sat for hours without water or food before being boarded up. Then, the transporter went dark, failing to answer my mom’s texts or calls. My parents didn’t even know his flight number. They had nothing.

Thus, when Lilah arrived in the cargo hold of the Kona airport, my parents had no idea of his whereabouts and couldn’t reach anyone who knew anything at all.

By the time my mom was finally contacted to pick him up, he’d gone over 24 hours without water–and likely without being checked on at all. That neglect, compounded by the stress of flying cargo, ultimately killed him.

And so my family was left to grieve in their paradise, Lilah’s empty cage on their front porch a forever reminder of what could have been.

Flying animals in cargo is always risky. Every year, animal companions die. In 2018, a report revealed that there had been 85 animal deaths in the last 3 years on flights in the US, with nearly half occurring on United Airlines. And just a few weeks ago, in the wake of two cats’ deaths on a Russian airline, guardians took to social media with photos of their dogs and cats to tell the airline that animals aren’t cargo–they’re passengers–in hopes of changing in-flight policy.

As for Hawaii, the state requires that all animals coming into the islands be taken immediately to the quarantine holding facility in Honolulu for inspection–but it doesn’t prescribe how these animals must enter, which is up to the individual airlines. While many of them will allow companions to fly in-cabin between islands, only a couple allow this for flights from the mainland to the state, leaving thousands of cherished companions relegated to the cargo hold. Or, even worse, they’re put onto a cargo-only airline that deals mostly with inanimate shipments, leaving actual live animals with very little to no care or oversight.

Why? Because the logistics of ensuring that animals flying in-cabin make it over to the quarantine hold facility for inspection would take time. And time is money.

It’s been over five years, but it’s time for Lilah’s story to become more than a black cloud over my family. It’s time for me to share it with the world and help other dogs, cats, and birds from suffering the same fate.

It’s time for the major airlines from the mainland U.S. to the Hawaiian Islands to apply, at a bare minimum, the same rules they use for flights within the lower 48 states–which allow small animals in carriers to stay in the cabin with their families.

And for animals who are only given the option to travel in cargo either into or between the islands, these carriers must implement rigid standards for animal companions, including constant tracking of animals’ whereabouts, hourly monitoring in holding facilities, and provision of water at regular intervals.

Please join me in calling on these airlines to protect our beloved animals who are entrusted into their care by signing my petition below.

Petition to be delivered to: Hawaiian Airlines, Alaska Airlines, American Airlines, United Airlines, Delta Airlines, and Aloha Air Cargo.

Petition count: 1,439 signatures

These Cockatiels Found Their Paradise

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Companions, Rescue

It took a lot of courage to let them go. But it was easy to set them free. And if I ever doubt that it was the right thing to do, I just whisper to myself these words of the late, great Maya Angelou: “The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still, and his tune is heard on the distant hill, for the caged bird sings of freedom.”

Her words, a metaphoric reflection on oppression, remind me that we all seek it–that elusive freedom–and few truly attain it. Yet, as Ms. Angelou once said, “The truth is, no one of us can be free until everybody is free.”

*

I was about 12 years old when a pair of cockatiels fell into my home. They’d been used as some sort of children’s educational act, but once their mysticism had faded, they had been relegated to a cage and left to their own devices.

So he, a gregarious grey and white bird with a permanent smirk deceptively etched into his feathered face, had taken to grooming her… And grooming her… And grooming her. Endlessly–until she, once a sleek white-feathered maiden, had morphed into more of a turkey, bald-headed but still irresistibly adorable.

They were soul mates, serenading one another under the sunrise every morning and huddling together for bed under the moonlight.

Then, suddenly, she was gone. Teflon, we concluded–the coating on the pan that cooked our pancakes every morning. A stray whiff of the fumes must have killed her. We hadn’t known it was poison. We were devastated.

He was devastated. He sang for her, day in and day out. A sad, shrill, eternal song–an empty song.

We had to do something, so we did what seemed logical: We drove to the pet store, and we bought another: a lone female, who had already been discarded once and returned to the store. Grey, fiery, full of sass–she was mean and miserable.

Had we known then that almost a third of wild parrot species are classified as threatened because of habitat destruction and capture for the pet trade, according to the Animal Welfare Institute, perhaps we would have done it differently. Had we known that breeders often mass-produce birds in filthy, crowded conditions much like puppy mills, perhaps we would have done it differently. Had we realized that these birds are never truly domesticated and will always be wild animals–born to fly free–yes, we just might have done it differently.

From day one, she hissed. She wanted very little to do with us. But he was a different story.

His eyes shone once more, and his song became bright again. Slowly but surely, her walls crumbled. She began to nestle up to him. And over the years, they became completely inseparable, each shining a light into the darkness that had overtaken both of their souls in the aftermath of abandonment.

But he proved that some habits die hard, as he didn’t delay in grooming her in the same way as her predecessor, replacing her shiny grey plumage with a bare pink skull.

I went to college, and I came home. And then I left again, flying off into the adult world. But they stayed. And upon my return, I always was greeted by his sweet song and that silly smile and reminded of her elegant aloofness.

The day came when it was time for my parents to make their ultimate move: to the Big Island of Hawaii. En route, tragedy struck when their beloved cockatoo, Lilah, passed away after a series of unforgivable oversights by the airline, airports, and transport company that resulted in him being denied water and food for hours on end. The guilt and loss for my family were crushing and raw. And in those moments, it was quite clear that Willie and Lucy, the bonded cockatiel pair, were not destined to follow my parents to paradise.

Back in Virginia, my wife and I had temporarily taken in the duo, alongside our menagerie of dogs, rabbits, fish, and a potbellied pig. But flight was limited in their small room, and for them, life had to be about much more than fleeting moments of flapping back and forth between the ceiling fan and their cage.

“A free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wing in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky,” wrote Maya Angelou.

We had known about the nearby Project Perry, also referred to as the Central Virginia Parrot Sanctuary and supported by game show host Bob Barker, for a while. With a mission to “provide exceptional natural environments for [its] residents where they can enjoy the enrichment of flight and the togetherness of flock with excellent care provided by a dedicated team of staff and volunteers,” the sanctuary is working to tackle the massive, growing problem of unwanted captive wild birds–often rejected for being too loud, too unruly, too disruptive–essentially, too wild.

Fortunately, Willie and Lucy were accepted into the sanctuary’s selective “Lifetime of Care” program, in which they could live out the rest of their days in a beautiful aviary with dozens of companion cockatiels and parakeets and surrounded by lush greenery. And while they would not be leaving my family in spirit–we’d continue to provide financial support for their care and be able to visit whenever we liked–their physical absence still pained me.

I wept in the silence after their songs had stopped.

Yes, it took strength to leave them there, but from the moment they climbed out of the carrier and took off in flight, I knew it was where they belonged–the closest habitat to their native Australia they’d ever reach.

I continued to visit when I could, and in the months of intermission, regular text updates and photos from sanctuary founder Matt Smith never failed to light up long, dreary days and weeks. Despite all the new fish in the sea, Willie and Lucy remained a bonded pair, never venturing far from one another.

On my visits, I noticed that they stopped flying down to greet me. They often sat together, perched near the roof of the aviary, surveying their surroundings. But still, he sang that familiar song, and through it I heard peace.

It stung, but I realized they didn’t need me–and that recognition was the biggest gift I could have given them. They were free, and they thrived.

Very recently, Matt solemnly notified me that Lucy had passed away peacefully in his hands, warm and comfortable–loved. By my estimates, she would have been more than 20 years old. I sighed, and then I wept–but inside I knew: this was the perfect ending to her story.

Then I began to worry for Willie. Would that desperate song emerge once more, with sorrowful cries into the night?

But my fears were quelled when my phone buzzed and a 10-second video appeared. In it, Willie and another bird, like two schoolkids on the playground, pecked happily together at the seeds around their feet.

“Maybe he’s on a millet-eating date,” read Matt’s accompanying text.

I just laughed, and I knew then that in that aviary, Willie’s soul had finally been set free. In there, he could heal, and he could truly live.

You can help: Exotic birds need you. Head on over to Project Perry’s page to learn how you can support the sanctuary’s life-saving work!