She really didn't have a name. I called her 'Little Bird" to distinguish her from her larger atrium flock mates, who are so much larger in size, but not in spirit. She lived with us for almost five years. We bought her out of pity, since the pet store kept marking down the price on the two peach-faced love birds. It seemed that no one wanted them. They were a devoted couple, you know, and it would be hard to turn them into devoted pets. They had each other and no other creature could come between them. When we turned them loose, they quickly staked out their territory and defended it against all comers--at the time, an aggressive Quaker, later a Temneh and assorted budgies. The larger birds learned to keep their distance, valuing their toes, which the couple, in tandem, attacked remorsefully if any should dare a challenge. We called them the "hate birds," out of respect for their sharp little beaks and indomitable courage. Then, one day, the male mysteriously died. Little Bird, now a widow, took up residence in a hollow coconut hung high and away from the other birds and lived a solitary life, moving from the coconut to a corner of the floor behind a shelf, where she felt secure and only occasionally dashing out to attack any unwary intruder. She would fly up to a mirror at times to admire herself, or perhaps, to remember. She was no trouble and, sadly, was largely ignored as the flock grew to include other larger birds, which included Daisy, a female eclectus, who vainly tried to dislodge her from the coconut, with only limited success. Little Bird kept her at bay with her squeaks, pin-prick pecks on unwary toes and flapping wings. Three days ago, she came down from her perch to eat and my heart stopped. Her peach face was covered in a black mask of congealed blood. I picked her up, with much struggling and squealing, and discovered that her upper mandible was largely gone, ripped off, apparently, in one final defense of her territory. I washed her as best I could and began hand feeding her, since she seemed healthy and active and still had that strange, unbowed spirit that was so many times larger than her small body. She seemed to thrive over the last few days, eating on her own by licking her food like a feathered cat. I placed her in a cage to keep the other birds at bay (oh, how they hate an injured flock mate. There is a steely awfulness in the way other birds attack and stalk the injured!) She refused to give up and even grew to like my three daily feedings with a syringe, hopping on my outstretched finger without protest. Today, I came to give her the afternoon feeding. She was still, clutching one of the cage bars in her death grip. Forgive the over-long eulogy to a small, insignificant bird that no one wanted. But I will miss you, my Little Caesar.
