The Birds of Pandemonium

by Michele Raffin

  Wandering the labyrinth with its devoted guardian was a deeper, far more intimate experience than seeing exotic animals in a zoo. I tried my best to remember the names of the birds as Louis pointed them out, but I gave up, overwhelmed. Tom always carries a stack of three-by-five cards and a pen with him. He jotted down names and circled those he found especially beautiful. As a painter, Tom is drawn to bold, saturated, natural color. I noticed him lingering at the aviary full of scarlet-chested grass parakeets. It’s easy to see why they’re also called splendid parrots. The males are splashed with dense primary colors: green head, blue back, red chest, and yellow underbelly.

  There was one bird that we had heard but not seen. We were intrigued by its call, which was a loud, low-pitched booming. We asked Louis what could make such a sound. “Victoria crowned pigeons. World’s largest pigeon. Dodo used to be—now these birds have the crown.” He chuckled at his pun and led the way to yet another cabinet of wonders. The Victoria crowned pigeons were among his greatest loves, ever since he first saw one at another breeder’s home nearby.

  “That’s the first kind of bird I got goofy over,” he admitted. “I couldn’t get it out of my head. I just had to find some for myself.” “Getting goofy,” I’d learn too well, was to fall in thrall so deeply with a species that you’ll extend your search over years, miles, and continents. How many times since then have I pulled up to an airport cargo area and listened anxiously for the sound of scratching from a small plastic carrier? Catching bird fever could get mighty expensive, Louis warned. A healthy Victoria crowned pair capable of reproducing “could run you five grand.” When we finally did see the big boomers, they trotted up to Louis for a pet or a scratch.

  “Big babies,” he growled. So trusting and unafraid of humans that they were easily trapped or slaughtered in the New Guinea wild.

  TWO HOURS LATER, we sat down to coffee with the Browns. Over the afternoon, we had come to realize that theirs is a deep, organic partnership, with Louis handling the aviaries and commerce and Carol managing the delicate art of incubating and hand-raising the rare babies. The kitchen is the heart of their operation, cluttered with baskets full of magnificent feathers and bowls of hollowed eggshells in speckles, blue greens, and deep purples. Fruit bowls share counter space with old incubator parts. Though Louis’s obsession started with a single African gray parrot that he still has, he and Carol now raise over a hundred species, some of which they sell to zoos and to a short list of wealthy collectors. Like the farmers in the surrounding area, they work from sunup to sundown, every single day. Their aviaries don’t have a name, they don’t advertise or attend conventions, and they’re not on the Internet. I don’t think they even have a cell phone. Not surprisingly, Louis’s grown children have no interest in this demanding family trade. Carol and Louis have not left their birds for a vacation in over forty years.

  Bird experts and enthusiasts—ornithologists, zookeepers, collectors, artists—come to them. An East Coast Amish breeder once hired a driver to take him all the way across the country to see the Browns so that he could “happen to be in the neighborhood” and wangle an invitation to see their birds. If you have been in an American zoo or a theme park with exotic-bird exhibits, chances are you’ve seen birds that were raised by Louis and Carol.

  In terms of breeding rare birds, Louis’s closest competitor may be a Qatari billionaire, Sheikh Saoud bin Mohammed bin Ali al-Thani. On a preserve nearly two square miles on the Arabian Peninsula, the sheikh has rescued the Brazilian Spix’s macaw from certain extinction. His facility keeps two thousand rare and endangered animals from over ninety species—including green-naped pheasant pigeons. The sheikh has a staff of two hundred, including four vets and five biologists. Louis and Carol have Hector, a compassionate, dedicated gentleman who shoulders fifty-pound sacks of seed and patrols the perimeter for rats, coons, and coyotes.

  The Browns’ specialty is hard-to-breed birds in the Columbidae family. They are legendary for puzzling out what precise conditions a species needs in order to reproduce. In the decade since my first visit that day, Carol has been a patient and knowing midwife to plenty of my hatchlings, via phone.

  Like a world-class collector chasing that illusive Picasso etching or first-issue stamp, Louis was challenged—and a bit irked—by his failures with green-naped pheasant pigeons. They were about the only dove species that he had not successfully bred yet. He was pleased to have made that three-way trade so that he could try again with new pairs. He once had three pairs of green-napeds, but none produced any young. Back then, Louis was working full-time as a butcher, buying and selling real estate on the side, and raising birds as a hobby. Once he retired and could devote all his time to the birds, he was confident he could find the secret to breeding these delicate, fragile birds.

  Should they discover the key to producing healthy hatchlings, he and Carol would not keep that information to themselves. This kind, unpretentious pair is unique in the bird-breeding world because they share knowledge and open their aviaries to fellow breeders. I didn’t realize it then, but I would be dealing with a fairly closed brotherhood. Most other breeders—nearly all are men—are extremely secretive and rarely allow anyone to see their birds or their facilities.

  Louis left the kitchen to net and prepare some birds for travel. I was amazed—and amused—to see my budget-conscious husband become enthralled enough about a couple of Louis’s species to buy some. Having Tom there with me was a very good thing. If I had tried to describe the wonders I saw that day, he would never have believed me. It has to be easier to live with the obsessed when you’ve entered the holy of holies as well. Maybe . . .

  We got set to leave the Browns’ with a pair of those irresistible scarlet-chested grass parakeets and a pair of Australian crested doves—Tom’s purchases. Louis gifted us with a male African half-collared dove, three Senegal doves, and an emerald dove missing a foot. As we loaded up, Tom turned to Louis and asked casually, “We can put these guys together in one aviary, right?”

  “No way! Got to keep the parakeets and doves separate, since psittacines [parrots and parakeets] dehusk their seed while doves eat the seed whole. And those Australian crested doves, keep them by themselves. Buggers can be aggressive when they’re nesting. You can put the half-collared with your ringnecks, but I wouldn’t. They can crossbreed. Same issue with the Senegal doves.”

  On the drive home, Tom was uncharacteristically quiet. With the day’s additions, our avian population had almost doubled from twelve birds and two species (six doves and six chickens) to twenty-one birds and seven species. Apparently we’d need three more aviaries; one for the grass parakeets, one for the Australian crested doves, one for the half-collared. And where could we safely house the handicapped emerald dove? On we drove, with a backseat full of noisy gifts and impulse buys and an uneasy silence between us.

  I was still concerned about my ability to care for new species. When I mused aloud about making more trips to the Browns’ for instruction, Tom was worried that I’d bring back more than information. After all, he had fallen hard for those birds himself. “Honey, why don’t you volunteer at a humane society that takes in wild birds?” he suggested sweetly. “That way you’ll learn about birds while you’re helping out.”

  We hired a carpenter to build a freestanding aviary. He normally worked for an orchid grower, building greenhouses. His aviary was spectacular, a seven-foot hexagon with a shingled roof. The sides were wire with fitted Plexiglas panels that could be removed in the heat of the summer but easily put back to protect from drafts in the winter. The structure was so handsome that a local newspaper ran an article with a photo of it in late 2001. As I delved deeper into the science of bird keeping, I realized that much of the construction was all wrong for keeping the floor clean or making the birds feel secure. But it sure looked great.

  We named it the Aussie Aviary and moved the scarlet-chested grass parakeets into it. They thrived; within two years our pair would become fourteen. We had divided
the aviary into separate sections and an annex for the other birds. Then the ringnecks had babies; so did the Australian crested. In the crowded conditions, turf wars erupted. It was time for another aviary. And so it went.

  FOUR

  Do You Speak Bird?

  A grocery clerk was straightening up the produce section when he noticed a small paper bag atop a mound of celery. A few hours later, the bag was still there. He opened it, expecting to find and restock a shopper’s forgotten vegetables. Instead, a live bird stared up at him. He was tiny, with a body about the size of a Ping-Pong ball. His feathers were light brown with chocolate-toned streaks down his back.

  This was a coturnix Japanese quail, and in all likelihood the shopper who forgot the bag was probably browsing for some spring onions to sauté along with the bird. A more serious gourmand would have consumed him as a few crunchy bites glazed in a bourbon-jalapeño reduction. Coturnix quail are some gourmets’ delight, raised commercially for their delicate dark flesh and their eggs. The Internet is brimming with health claims for the inch-and-a-half-long brown speckled eggs; they are touted as balms for everything from inflammatory diseases to erectile dysfunction. Quail eggs are used in facial masks and hair care products and hailed for their quotients of antioxidants, essential fatty oils, thiamine, and riboflavin.

  This “farmed” quail had likely been bought at a live-animal market that morning. The bird peered up at the startled grocery clerk and let out a high-pitched squeal. To a first-time listener, quail song sounds like that of an oversize cricket. Listen to a coturnix closely enough and the lilting, upper-register notes are evocative of a violin or viola. The song is quite moving and beautiful.

  Six hundred years ago in feudal Japan, this little ball of feathers in a paper sack might have been worth his weight in captured silver—prized for his artistry, rather than his flesh. Samurai warriors were among those who kept these quail as songbirds. Contests were held to judge the most beautiful performance. Much later, some breeders practiced photostimulation, manipulating artificial light to get the birds to sing in winter. The coturnix’s transformation from diva to dinner course arrived around the turn of the twentieth century; legend has it that the Japanese emperor ate these quail as a cure for his tuberculosis. The species was eventually imported and domesticated in the United States.

  The quail in this supermarket was lucky on three counts. First, he was forgotten by the person intending to eat him, and then he was given to a local humane society. Had the clerk turned him loose in the nearest field, he would never have survived in the wild. The shelter that accepted him had a well-regarded wildlife rehabilitation center, and that was the quail’s third bit of luck: during the intake process, a clerk misclassified the bird as “wildlife” in the computer system instead of the more accurate designation of “farm animal.”

  This was a reprieve from being sent to the nearest quail farm and back to market. But it landed him in a confusing thicket of human bureaucracy. Birds designated wildlife are never offered for adoption. Unless they are permanently injured, they are rereleased into the wild. This bird was not listed as native American wildlife, given his species origin in Japan. Bottom line: the staff could not release the quail because he wasn’t native, but they couldn’t put him up for adoption either.

  The coturnix stayed at the humane society for several months, marooned in a clerical catch-22. A kennel assistant there noticed the quail and offered to adopt or buy him for a light supper. The adoption counselor who reviewed the application was concerned. Humane societies are not in the business of placing animals so that they can be eaten. She declined the “adoption,” and soon afterward I heard from her.

  “I looked up his paperwork and realized the mistake in his classification,” the adoption counselor told me. “Then I decided to call you. This bird needs to be in a sanctuary where he will be safe. He is absolutely adorable. You’ll love him.”

  Great, I thought. Another learning curve, and another expense. Tom’s suggestion that I do volunteer work in local bird shelters had been a good one, but I’m afraid its effect had been the opposite of what he’d intended in seeking to curb our ever-growing bird population. I loved the work and learned a lot about how to identify, handle, feed, and medicate birds. Tom knew that wild birds were not eligible for adoption. There was another department at the humane society, however, that put pet birds up for adoption, and now I was called pretty regularly. We had more birds than ever.

  I had no experience with quail and I was reluctant to add another species to the diverse group already housed in our backyard. The counselor persuaded me that the quail would be very easy to keep. She had placed other birds with us, including an Indian ringneck parrot and a pair of rosy Bourkes, pretty little pink-and-blue parakeets with sweet dispositions. She had campaigned very hard for a cockatoo named Angel, but I came to my senses and declined. Despite that single rational no, the counselor knew the buttons to push.

  “He’s the size of a baby chick, he’s very friendly, he’s loved by everyone on the staff. He is really a darling. Trust me, you won’t regret taking him.”

  She was right; we all fell for him. For his part, the little quail bestowed a huge gift: he taught me the rudiments of how to speak bird.

  I CALLED HIM Sweetie, because he was just that. When I set him into our smallest five-by-seven-foot aviary—which was far larger than his cage at the shelter—he raced excitedly around its perimeter, scuttled back to me, and burst into song. Anytime I went to feed him, he’d react the same way. When he noticed me at the aviary door, he would leave off with whatever he was doing—pecking at a meal or giving himself a dust bath—and race toward me. If I sat down on the aviary floor, Sweetie would jump into my lap. If I stroked his head, he would sing.

  I could see how he might have bewitched even a battle-toughened samurai warrior. Before long, I was familiar enough with his repertoire of songs to hear nuances in rhythm and pitch. Sweetie seemed to crave human company, especially mine. When I came anywhere near his aviary, he’d run to the wire and look expectant. I was besotted, yet I was also wary when I went into his cage. He was so tame that he was always darting swiftly underfoot, and his coloring blended in with the aviary floor. I was worried that one of us might step on him. I hung a caution sign on his cage to remind everyone to be very careful.

  One day I heard Tom laughing from behind Sweetie’s aviary. When I went over to see what had tickled him so, he pointed to two of our oldest son’s friends, who were walking back toward the house. They were big boys, with linebacker physiques. Tom replayed their conversation for me.

  “The thing must be poisonous.”

  “Maybe it does something like leap up and peck your eyes out.”

  “I dare you to walk in there.”

  “No way. You first.”

  Tom had gone over to chat them up and make sure there were no intrusions into Sweetie’s territory. He was still laughing once they had disappeared into the house. “They were afraid of that tiny quail!”

  “But why?”

  I was mystified. Then Tom pointed to my sign and started laughing again. I guess my hastily scrawled warning was open to interpretation. On a board three feet square in huge letters I’d written: DANGER! DON’T ENTER!

  IT MAY HAVE been ludicrous to imagine Sweetie as an attack quail, but I can say that his charm was a sweet sort of tyranny. When he ran to me, I had to put other bird chores on hold to enjoy this tiny bird with the outsize personality. I learned to feed him last so as not to be late in getting to birds scheduled after him. The reason was simple. When he sat in my lap and sang, I lost track of time.

  Like any virtuoso, Sweetie had very strong preferences, especially when it came to food. When I brought him home from the shelter, I fed him game-bird mash, as recommended by the humane society. The food is protein rich, formulated to supply all needed minerals and vitamins for game birds. Since quail are considered game birds, the choice of food seemed reasonable. Our pheasants, also game birds, loved c
hopped-up greens, so I offered him these, as well as “birdie bread,” a homemade corn bread with strained baby-food veggies, eggs (including the shells), shredded carrots, and pellets in it. Most of our birds reacted to it as a yummy treat.

  Not Sweetie. I would enter his aviary carrying food dishes, and he would run to me and watch intently as I put them down. He poked his beak into each dish and then turned his gaze upward. I kept trying: crushed Cheerios, fruit cut into tiny pieces, bread crumbs, hard-boiled eggs mashed into a paste. The reaction was the same, yet I could tell he was hungry. He’d look at me as if to say, Why can’t you understand what I want? and then he’d let out a soft cry like a trill.

  “Eek!”

  I’ve reproduced it as best I can given the limits of our alphabet.

  Likely translation: Seriously? Human, you disappoint me again. And I’m hungry.

  When Sweetie’s adoption counselor called to check in, I voiced my frustration with our picky eater. “I’m sorry. I should have told you,” she apologized. “He absolutely adores mealworms. We gave him three or four of them every day.”

  That afternoon I bought my first batch of mealworms. When I presented the first worm to Sweetie, he was so excited he tried to leap up to my fingers to claim him prize. He gobbled up all four worms that I’d placed on the ground for him. I sat down and gave Sweetie a boost up into my lap. As I stroked his head and listened to his postprandial trill, I felt as buoyant as he sounded.