Back in the early 2000s, when we lived in Silverton, I knew it was important for the girls to have a pet. But with two children under the age of five, I wanted a low-maintenance critter — maybe a goldfish or a hamster. And then, when we were in Costa Rica, we stayed at an eccentric little inn that was teeming with pet birds, singing away in their little cages. Perfect, I thought, and when we returned home I went in search of a feathered friend.
Play-doh was a six week old cockatiel when we brought him home to our drafty 100-year-old house during a very snowy Silverton winter. Since he was a tropical bird and all, I worried that he might catch a cold. But he seemed like a sturdy fellow and a good first pet: No one would get too attached and surely birds don’t live a long time, do they?
Umm, no. We soon discovered Play-doh was no ordinary creature. He insisted, in his insistent way, that he was to be the center of all the action. So I let him out of the cage to be carried around the house by small children. The first of many near-catastrophes was when he fell off the top bunk bed (his wings had been clipped by the breeder), landing where his tail feathers should have been. He bled profusely and I was sure that this would be his demise. But the next morning he woke us all up with his usual beginning of the day tune, which translated to something like, “Get me the hell out of this cage you lazy humans!”
After that ordeal, I decided it would be a good idea to let his feathers grow out. Soon enough, he was flying around the house, swooping over our heads, following the girls from room to room, constantly singing, and pooping wherever he landed. His favorite place was at the dining room table during dinner time, going from plate to plate, helping himself to whatever he desired. His favorite was pasta, possibly because it triggered some instinctual hunger for worms.
Play-doh experienced his share of close calls in Silverton, usually during the 9-month snow season. Once he flew out the front door in the middle of a snow storm and landed across the street in a 12-foot high drift, which I had to delicately ascend to rescue him. While spending the weekend with Betsy he flew into the iron-orange waters of Cement Creek. Luckily he had the sense to spread his wings while going through a rapid or two, allowing him to be swooped up onto a rock.
And I thought birds were supposed to be easy pets.
When we moved to Paonia, I planted his cage right in the kitchen where all the action took place. It would have been prudent to keep his wings clipped, but also seemed to go against his very nature. And since clipping his wings involved Play-doh’s sharp beak, leather gloves, scissors, and a steady hand, we all leaned toward letting him have his long, gorgeous wings — and his freedom to fly around the house. Which was all good and fine until we came home from a party on a summer’s eve to find that the back door had been left open and Play-doh had bolted. We searched frantically all around the house, inside and out, with no luck. That night we all went to bed with streaks of tears on our cheeks. Early the next morning, when the sun started to peak out, I went out looking for Play-doh, whistling as well as I could. Finally, a block from our house, just as I was about to give up hope, I heard his distinctive whistle. I found him nestled into a lilac bush. He had a look on his face and an edge in his chirp that seemed like a mix between What took you so damn long and Boy-oh-boy am I glad that you found me. I rushed home with him snuggled in my arms, tears streaming down my cheek, calling out for everyone to wake up. Play-doh was home!
Around this time Play-doh became Plato, though I’m not sure why. Maybe it was because Elena was obsessed with Greek mythology at the time, or maybe because play-doh was just too childish. Anyway, Plato was a better match for this fierce eight-ounce creature.
When we moved to Berlin in 2010, we decided to take Princess, our dog, and leave Plato in the U.S. with Natalie’s mom, Carol, since hauling a bird overseas is no small feat. Carol grew up with birds, and didn’t mind Plato flying freely around the house, bird poop and all. He was happy there, but we missed him.
After we returned to Colorado, Plato came back to live with us, but something had shifted with him. He no longer was the family bird, and instead was completely focused on Elena—she was his person. Every morning I would open the cage door and he would fly to her chest, singing to her gently to wake-up, often kissing her around the lips. Over the next four years in Durango, his cage was in her room, where he was the happiest.
When I got a teaching job in Sofia, there was no question that we would take Plato along. We didn’t think he would survive if separated from Elena. It turns out flying birds across the world is a bit of a bureaucratic nightmare. I started the paperwork months in advance. There were documents to gather and appointments to be made. Plato needed to be inspected by a USDA vet 24 hours before departure, so there were limited places to fly out of the country from, and there was only one airline that allowed pets of a certain size to fly in the cabin—Turkish Airlines. As we raced across Denver to get the USDA vet for his physical/inspection, there was a coup brewing half-way across the world in Turkey. This meant that we couldn’t fly into Istanbul. When I called my new school to explain we would have to delay our arrival, they said their travel agent could rebook on a different airline, but that was impossible because we could only travel on Turkish Airlines—it was complicated. Fortunately for us, the coup didn’t work and after a couple days we were on our way. We sailed through customs in Sofia, with not a glance from the sleepy eyed agent. We made it.
We lived on campus in Sofia. Every day Plato would wait on the windowsill for Elena to come home from school. Somehow he could sense her when she was 200 meters away and would start chirping very loudly. Plato’s attachment to Elena was so strong that we took the bird with us on our travels whenever we could. During the five years we lived in Bulgaria, Plato spent time in Berlin, Sandanski, the Halkidiki Peninsula, and Athens. He was a regular jet setter
But when Elena went off to college in New York, Plato couldn’t accompany her. It was too complicated and she’d get booted from the dorm. Plato sunk into a depression. I tried to cheer him up by paying him extra attention and giving him more neck rubs and beak massages. He was never in his cage, and spent a good part of the day flying around the house, harassing Jonathan as he worked, eating books and woodwork, and pooping on our heads. When we moved to Greece, Plato seemed to perk up a bit. I think he preferred the weather and his time outside in the olive tree.
Nonetheless, he was always happiest when Elena was home for a visit. Last summer she decided that it was time to bring Plato back to New York with her. Once again, paperwork was filed, appointments were made, Turkish Air tickets were purchased. This time around there was no coup, but Plato did have a 30-day quarantine in New York City. Supposedly he charmed the staff with his exuberant personality and was receiving plenty of attention.
Every time I spoke with Elena I could hear Plato chirping away in the background, delivering some profound, avian monologue. It was no different yesterday afternoon. I asked Elena how Plato was, and she said fine. I commented on what a pain in the butt his constant demands for attention were, and that it was a good thing he was so darned cute. As we said goodbye Elena got up to take Plato out of his cage so he could be on her, as he demanded. Twenty minutes later Elena called me back in tears. Plato had died suddenly in her lap. His big, tiny heart simply stopped. And in that instant, our hearts broke, too.
Oh Plato, how you created so much joy, wonder and laughter with your big personality. Your sweet song has been the background of many of our family’s most memorable moments. Fly free Plato, we love you.
What a beautiful story and pictures! Well, Plato, more than once, landed on my head, especially whenever I got too close to Elena. I suspect that Plato thought Elena was Mrs. Plato. Plato and Elena were blessed to have such a peaceful place, Elena's lap, to slowly transform into free flying electrons.
Really enjoyed this. I had a similar living arrangement and relationship with a cockatoo for 14 years. Blanca was loving, curious, funny and demanding in a sweet feathery way. She too loved pasta in addition to baths in the sink, imitating not just my words but my voice, grabbing the cat’s tail, using her tongue like a thumb, climbing the furniture, wobbling down the hall to sneak into bed with me, and stealing toys from the dogs (which tragically brought about her demise). Gave me a glimpse into the bird world, of which I think all members have similar very large personalities. Thank you for sharing with us.