Animal Transitions

In late May a woman entered our store and initiated conversation with me regarding her birds. She had a mature African Grey parrot, a presumed female who spoke several phrases, for whom she sought a new home. Cindy had owned Bo for some years, but had been unable to evacuate her or her three cockatiels during Hurricane Katrina. After several agonizing weeks, wondering if her birds had survived, she returned to find all of them alive. Her experience had been so harrowing, however, that she vowed that she would relinquish the birds before she would risk their having to be left in New Orleans again during an evacuation. Knowing that I am an animal trainer and an experienced rescuer and that I was already familiar with birds, Cindy was willing to give me any or all of her birds along with their cages for free. She asked only that I visit her and Bo sufficiently ahead of time, so that we could make the transition easier for Bo.

As a psychologist familiar with the literature on animal intra- and inter-species communication, I could not help but be excited at the prospect of having an African Grey of my own to train. Of all birds, Greys are considered to have the highest potential for meaningful, human-like speech. It is an African Grey named Alex, trained by Dr. Irene Pepperberg, now at Brandeis University, who is the most verbally gifted of trained birds. His novel use of language challenges old views of what distinguishes humans from other species. I had once heard Pepperberg speak to local aviculturists, and I found her work exhilarating.

Once before my family had a Grey, but Oscar was a breeder bird who did not like being handled. Previously able to say "apple," he shut down speaking when he entered our home. Bo, on the other hand, was a sociable creature. To adopt her would necessitate restructuring my life so that I could spend at least an hour per day working with a new bird. I visited Cindy and Bo one night and was impressed with her obvious affection for the bird and the care that she gave her. She was in excellent feather, and her cage was massive and costly. Bo was not accustomed to the company of strangers, however, and despite our cautious introductions, she bit me on the lip. Not yet dissuaded, I promised to return for another visit, and Cindy lent me a book an Greys. The book, aimed at the novice Grey fancier, made the point that even if one's Grey never learned to speak, that it was an animal with a complicated and sophisticated mental and emotional life, equipped to demand much, but also to give much in return. I asked myself how long I would be able change my lifestyle and commit to her time-intensive care if Bo stopped talking, and I realized that there had to be others who would be better prepared to do so. I read about avian health care and training for several weeks, and finally referred Cindy to someone else who had long wanted a Grey. Visits to the local bird fair and the largest local bird store yielded the purchase of several cages--including several designated strictly for evacuation--but no parrot purchases.

A few weeks later at PetWorld, a gray cockatiel, apparently male, began performing unusually varied and catchy songs. He was a distinctive little fellow, as he had the most bedraggled tail feathers of any bird at the store. Despite his less-than-economical price and unimpressive appearance, I brought him home, named him Moshe, and put him in the large, new cage occupied by Elyssa and Alanna. The birds were quiet both during the initial few hours when I stayed in the room with them, and later when left alone. The next morning, however, there was blood in the cage and he had a blood feather. Whether the girls had attacked him or he had injured himself, it was impossible to know, but I took him to the avian vet and separated him from the girls for a week. Months later, Moshe looks comfortable in the big cage, and his tail feathers are finally restored. He does not sing nearly as much as he did at PetWorld, but I do catch an occasional burst of lovely song from him. I need to spend more time with him to prevent his becoming as cage-bound as the girls are, and as I see how hard it is to integrate that into my life, I am relieved that I never took on Bo. As Kate tyically leaves the television on in the birds' room, I guess I should feel grateful that he does not perform replays of half of Nickelodeon's programming.

Another species came to our home when an evening shopper brought in an aquatic turtle that her husband had found while working. The daughter of the family liked the little red-eared slider a lot, but her mother did not want to make room for and care for another pet. Since PetWorld is a retail store rather than a rescue orgnization--a distinction lost upon many of our customers--we could not accept the turtle into our stock. I had admired friends' turtles for some time, however, and since stores are not legally permitted to sell small sliders except "for educational purposes," there was no other way to obtain one. The little turtle--as yet of undetermined sex--had been named Squirt, after a character in the film "Finding Nemo." He came home with me in a piece of Tupperware, that had been decorated with two rocks from the Great Smokey Mountains, and found a new home in our discarded twenty-gallon aquarium. At first I left him in the Tupperware to give the water in the aquarium time to become safer, but Squirt climbed out of the Tupperware, falling six inches into the tank, with no apparent ill effects. He is an otherwise cautious fellow who recognizes that my turning on the light indicates the immanent arrival of turtle pellets in the water's surface, but who prefers to hide as well as possible whenever I approach the tank.

The animal arrival that has most impacted us I have saved until last. In July our store manager asked me to help keep an eye on the bank of stainless steel cages in which we display cats and kittens who are awaiting adoption. It is primarily the cashiers' duty to keep those cages clean, but when particularly active kittens are on display, they commonly spill water and scatter litter across their cages with great frequency--perhaps in part to elicit attention. At any rate, in mid-August a stunning calico cat made her appearance. She was three years old, a sizable girl, whose face was nearly black on one side, and tan and white on the other. Her face seemed to imitate a perfect harlequin. We knew nothing of her history, but she seemed to be a cat who would be snapped up quickly because of her beauty and distinctiveness. Skye was competing against active kittens, however, and, sadly, there were no takers for her. As the days passed, and she stayed in her little stainless cubicle, this poor girl seemed to become depressed. People would tap their fingers against the glass and arouse a flurry of crazy activity from the little kittens, but Skye would look away or seemingly look right through them, uninterested. As I swept out the cages, I started to give Skye special attention.

I was far from being a cat person, having attempted to keep a kitten some thirty years ago when I was teaching college. Lily was a cute little white kitten who had gotten along well with my dog Lee, but after a few months of severe allergy symptoms--despite my ongoing shots--I had reluctantly passed her on to a departmental colleague who had other cats. I had steadfastly avoided cats since that time and I was genuinely surprised that I could handle my new cat-cage duties without discomfort. Still, in my intensive exposure to canine behavior I have become aware of nonverbal nuances to which I was previously oblivious, and I realize that cat behavior must be equally complex and, at times, counter-intuitive. Very slowly and cautiously I explained these things to Skye, asking her to pardon my inevitable clumsiness. I leaned into her open cage and simply hugged her, day after day. I took her photo with my cellphone and carried it with me, in part for my own pleasure at looking at her, and in part because I hoped I might interest someone in adopting her.

After Skye had been at the store for nearly a month, I was praising her to a potential adopter, and I opened her cage so the woman could caress her. Skye turned away from her and pressed toward me. I realized that I might be doing her a disservice.

The concept of bringing Skye home to our house was relatively unthinkable. After all, we have five adult dogs, four of them Golden Retrievers. We have a necessarily large doggie door that would not keep her safely inside as a house cat. We have three cockatiels and a Senegal parrot. Could we trust Skye to leave the birds alone? And most importantly, Joel is--as far as he knows-- allergic to cats.




On September 16, I asked one of the shelter volunteers how long a shelter cat typically stays at PetWorld, awaiting adoption. She said that an animal is generally moved after a month's time. Skye had just reached a month. Would she be taken back to the shelter? Although no one at the store had wanted her, weren't her chances of adoption more greatly reduced if she were back at the shelter, away from the public eye? I told the volunteer how attached I had become to Skye, but how concerned I was that Joel's allergies would not permit her to live with us. She suggested that I take Skye home as a trial. I could wait until PetWorld's adoption weekend was over, and then take Skye home with me. Within an hour or two of my discussion with her, I had already phoned Joel and pled my case. He said, "I am not happy about this," but allowed that since it was clearly just a trial, it was a possibility. I didn't last the weekend: Skye went home with me that night. She settled into the new cat carrier without the slightest objection, and talked to me with steady meows all the way home.

Most online pet resources suggest that a new cat be locked in one room of its new home for two weeks, because it would bond as much with its new location as with its new owner. The dogs were to be kept out of that room. They barked and barked upon her arrival, and alpha dog Elliot pushed forward and sniffed excitedly at the door of the carrier. I wanted to put her litter box in the bathroom but could not lock her in such a tiny, lonely room for two weeks, so my bedroom became her room. I put out a cardboard scratching pad and hung a woven sisal pad over the doorknob of my closet door, both of which she completely ignored.

Skye spent a fair amount of time under my bed, but came up periodically for petting. Over the next few days as various dogs would squeeze into my room, she held her own and never hissed. In a week's time, the litter box was moved into the bathroom, and her food bowls were high atop my dresser.

After Skye appeared unruffled by the presence of the dogs and the dogs had become used to her presence, I carried her outside briefly in order to photograph her. She rushed back indoors of her own accord. Could this cat be any more perfect? She does not even take any note of the bird cages.

During the evenings, when Joel worked on reports and I watched TV in his room, Skye would occasionally wander down the hall to join us. We would say hello, give her a scratch, and she'd be gone. Late one night I heard Joel hacking away in a vain attempt to clear his lungs. I cried, assuming that Skye's days with us were numbered. However, he surprised me by saying he could not be sure that Skye had anything to do with his congestion.

On the fortnight, I tentatively asked Joel if he felt safe making Skye's adoption legal. He thrilled me with an affirmative answer. I can barely believe that I am a cat mom. Now I answer customers' questions about dog care, but turn around and ask the cat owners among them all sorts of idiotic cat questions. I remember old friends from many years ago, and cats that they had, and I want to write them all and say, "Guess what? I have a cat now--the world's most beautiful cat!"