What's Hot
What's Going On


Search thousands of events in our database.


Search hundreds of restaurants in our database.


Search hundreds of clubs in our database.


OW on Twitter
OW on Facebook
Print Email

News & Features

Bonding with Blueie

How a lovebird won my heart after a lifetime spent trying to live with incompatible pets

Photo: , License: N/A

Related stories

I have a lovebird. Yes, just one. They don't have to come in pairs, because they happily bond with the person willing to feed them, entertain them and put up with their crap. And that would be me. I feed him, let him sit on my shoulder, and I rock him and sing to him every night before putting him on his sleeping perch. It's sick.

Blueie's got me wrapped around his talons and he knows it. He recognizes words: EAT, SLEEP, BEEP, UP, DOWN and KISS DADDY. He humps his favorite toy in full view of whoever happens to be near his cage, and he regurgitates half-digested seed from his craw when he wants to feed my fingers. Charming. He screams when he doesn't want to do something and kisses sweetly when he wants his way. And when I pull into the driveway after work, I hear him shrieking a welcome from inside the house.

He's the first pet I ever bonded with, and I tell you – it's a whole new sensation. A few ounces of feathers and beak have managed to worm their way into my heart, and I finally understand how people can grow so attached to their pets. I haven't always felt this way; people going on and on and ON about their cats and dogs elicited tolerant smiles from me, nothing more, but now I know differently.

Asthmatic kids (like I was) don't get to have pets like normal kids. A battery of tests determined exactly what was causing me to frequently suffocate and turn blue, resulting in the sad fact that Bow Wow, my grandmother's dog who lived upstairs, was causing my paroxysms. He and I had had an uneasy relationship anyway. Between my bouts of gasping for breath, he would entice my small, romping body into darkened hallways and dim basements. "Bow Wowww!" I would croon, wondering where he'd gotten to. "Bow Wowwww!" And then he'd appear, suddenly rushing in front of me, broadsiding me facedown onto waxed linoleum or cement floors.

I came home from school one day to discover that he'd been sent "to a farm." I naively interpreted this as a vista of green grass, red barns and whitewashed fences. What my family really meant was that Bow Wow had "bought the farm," but were loath to lay the guilt on me. (That would come later, in other, more circus-like ways.)

By the time there came to be four of us children, the visceral need for a pet had lodged itself deep within our pastina-clogged brains. It was understood, however, that nothing allergenic would cross the threshold of the Crescitelli home; our pets would have to be green, wet and able to subsist on smelly pellets of food purchased at the five-and-ten.

My sister Gina challenged this. "When Jimmy dies, can we get a dog?" she asked one day. There was hesitation before the parental response: "Well ... you'll have to take care of it."

Aside from the choking allergic reaction, I became afraid of dogs by the time I was working my way through grammar school. None of the dogs on the block liked me: Max, a German shepherd, howled and foamed and clawed at his flimsy fence whenever I walked by; Tiny, no bigger than a hamster, backed me into corners while the rest of the neighborhood children laughed; and Prince, the dog next door, snarled and slobbered and insisted on rubbing his gamy backside against my little dungarees during the height of summer. No, no dogs for me.

We welcome user discussion on our site, under the following guidelines:

To comment you must first create a profile and sign-in with a verified DISQUS account or social network ID. Sign up here.

Comments in violation of the rules will be denied, and repeat violators will be banned. Please help police the community by flagging offensive comments for our moderators to review. By posting a comment, you agree to our full terms and conditions. Click here to read terms and conditions.
comments powered by Disqus