blog_mtweti: 2009-02-05T10:49:01Z Copyright (c) 2009, Mira Tweti ExpressionEngine tag:parrots.org,2009:02:05 tag:parrots.org,2009:index.php/47.1748 2009-02-05T10:40:01Z 2009-02-05T10:49:01Z Mira Tweti Mira@Miramarmango.com tag:parrots.org,2007:index.php/47.1538 2007-12-20T09:28:00Z 2007-12-24T09:30:16Z Mira Tweti Mira@Miramarmango.com http://www.ParrotPress.org. I'd like to believe 2008 can be the Year of the Parrot. Or as I say in the back of the book, "help save the planet one parrot at a time!" Wishing you and yours the very best for the Holidays and a Happy New Year! Mira Author and... Publisher! ]]> tag:parrots.org,2007:index.php/47.1466 2007-08-10T09:29:00Z 2007-08-13T01:10:30Z Mira Tweti Mira@Miramarmango.com
He may be looking for eelgrass to eat, or he may be searching for his lost mate. After three years of inseparable companionship with another Australian black swan named Pearl, Rupert is alone again.

Rupert is a velvety-rich black except for the white crests on his wings -- which look like two small, snowcapped Mt. Fujis -- and a bright red beak. He has been swimming in Newport harbor for at least 20 years. No one knows how he got here.

All photos by Gay Wassall-Kelly

For most of that time, the entire bay was his domain, though he often would hold court on the beach in front of Gay Wassall-Kelly's house -- announcing his arrival with three honks -- where he would feed and preen, sun and sleep.

But in the last few weeks his routine has changed. Now he sticks to the small area of the bay that he and his mate scouted to make their first nest, perhaps hoping she will swim up beside him once more. And he arrives at Wassall Kelly's beach only to bed down after dark, calling out just once to let her know he's there.

Wassall-Kelly, 63, is editor of the local newspaper, the Balboa Beacon. She has been Rupert's friend and biographer since he first walked up on her beach 10 years ago, tapped her granddaughter on the shoulder and then posed for a photo with her.

She has documented his rambunctious behavior, describing his fixation on all things red and how he chased junior lifeguards in red suits and people in red canoes. One pair of canoeists, terrified by Rupert's wide-winged attack, capsized.

Lately, Wassall-Kelly, who has red hair, has tried to draw Rupert back by wearing a red sweater. But neither that nor the sight of her familiar face brings him in.

The harbor master, Marty Kasules, and members of the Orange County Harbor Patrol say that protecting Rupert is part of their job. Over the years they have untangled him from fishing line and rescued him from a variety of human-caused trouble.

But like Wassall-Kelly, they are finding it harder to attract Rupert. He has been ignoring their boat even though they try to entice him with a pail of fresh drinking water. In the past, the swan would come to their bucket right away (he preferred bottled water), biting hands that fed him. His bite feels like a clothespin pinch.

Several years ago, people who knew him well decided that Rupert acted cranky because he was longing for a mate.

Australian black swans are not easy to come by. They cost $10,000 to $12,000, when you can find one. Wassall-Kelly started fund- raising to buy Rupert a girlfriend, but Rupert kept getting into scrapes, and the money was spent on veterinary bills.

Once, he was snared by fishhooks. Another time, a pair of teenagers poured marine fuel over his head for fun. He lay drowning in it, and was almost dead when the Harbor Patrol scooped him up and cleaned him with fresh water.

Pearl was bred in Corona and donated by a local resident three years ago. She was as sweet as Rupert was grouchy. After she arrived she was kept in a large cage on the beach to familiarize her with saltwater living and acclimate her to rising tides.



A sign on the cage identified her as "Rupert's New Mate." But "It wasn't love at first sight," Wassall-Kelly said. "He chased her around."

A few days after they released her, she swam out of the safety of the bay to the ocean. After that, Rupert always made sure he knew where she was. "He'd start out and realize she wasn't behind him," Wassall-Kelly said. "Then she'd hurry up as if to say 'OK, I'm coming. I was just getting my makeup on.' " After they bonded, the two swans were inseparable. "They slept together on the beach and talked all night long," said Wassall-Kelly.



They were a celebrity couple, making the rounds of elite waterfront homes, stopping long enough for a quick drink, never overstaying their welcome. Their likenesses adorned note cards, paintings and other souvenirs made by local artists.

Pearl died in October. "Someone let their dog run after the swans for fun," said Debbie McGuire, director of the Wetlands and Wildlife Care Center in Huntington Beach, where the injured Pearl was brought for care. For the two weeks she was there, Rupert swam around the harbor day and night endlessly calling for her.

Fearing that Rupert would never stop calling, the staff of the center showed him her body. "At first he was happy to see her," McGuire said. "He spoke to her and nudged her." After four hours, he finally left her side and ate some food. "We all cried," said McGuire, "It was so sad."

When people at the center tried to put Pearl's body in a plastic bag, Rupert attacked them, so they had to take him away first.

Rupert's neighbors worry that losing Pearl will be especially hard on him because she's the only female he's ever known. But Wassall-Kelly is optimistic. Her weekly newspaper has a section reserved for Rupert news.

Recently, it reported that despite his general melancholy, Rupert was back to pulling pranks. Kasules was on the deck of the patrol boat trying to tie his shoes when Rupert swam over and yanked his laces and then pulled his hair.

There was talk of getting him another mate, but Pearl's necropsy showed something alarming that put those plans on indefinite hold.

It wasn't the dog that killed the swan. It was kidney damage and liver failure caused by toxic marine fuel, McGuire said. The fuel leaks into Newport Bay from spills, from harbor fueling stations and from boats when boaters forget to turn off their fuel pumps.

Rupert has been through a number of spills, but no one knows how it's affected him internally. He seems healthy, but that doesn't mean anything, McGuire said. "Typically, birds mask their symptoms and won't show signs of illness until they're very sick. Any sign of weakness makes them a target for predators."

Rupert's neighbors hope his adopted home won't prove fatal to him as it did to Pearl.

"It's tragic," said McGuire, "Swans mate for life, and these two were so happy together."
]]> tag:parrots.org,2007:index.php/47.1457 2007-07-15T23:56:00Z 2007-07-15T23:41:45Z Mira Tweti Mira@Miramarmango.com
Getting him a friend seemed the obvious way for him to be happy when I was away. So for several years, between my travels, there was a parade of lories in and out of the apartment – all possible companions for Mango. They came from pet shops, from breeders, you name it. All the birds he liked, I didn’t, and vice versa. The ones that didn’t work out didn’t stay – I found homes for them or brought them back to the breeders after a week or so. At the time, it never dawned on me for a moment that all this shuttling around might be traumatic to the birds. They were young and didn’t seem to mind the excitement of a new place, a new playmate even if it was temporary. I was naïve about parrots then in a number of ways.

There was Big Boy who was so big, he was like a Lory Baby Huey. Big Boy wasn’t in the house five minutes before he found everything to get into that Mango hadn’t in more than a year of living there. And of course Mango was fascinated with all the new discoveries, so he followed Big Boy wherever he led. There was Mini (short for mini-Mango because she was smaller and followed him everywhere) there was Kiwi, who sang entire operettas before she lunged to bite you -- hard. And when I had finally given up, there was a call from the breeder to say that he had a bird for me. I wasn’t thrilled about the timing – I’d just gotten a call from Universal Pictures to work on a film shooting back east through Christmas. It was short notice, I would be leaving in a week and for the first time, I was planning to take Mango with me on location.

I was still thinking it over, when the next day the breeder called to say he was on his way to a bird mart and would stop by. I figured I could decide when I saw the lory. But his truck full of birds was double-parked downstairs so he stayed only a few minutes, just long enough to drop off the tiniest bird I’d ever seen. Chutney (I thought Mango/Chutney would be cute names for a companion pair) was much younger than I’d pictured him. I tried to refuse but the breeder said he couldn’t take him – he had another 6 hours drive ahead of him and Chutney had been in the car for 3 hours already.

Chutney needed much more attention than the caretaker could give him and it would be unfair to impose a bird this young on friends (I was a little steamed at being left with a bird so young myself!) so there was only one choice: take them both with me.

I planned everything I had a good carrier for Mango. Canvas, with a shoulder strap and handles. I’d had it customized with perches made from dowels for $1.50 at the local hardware store while I waited. Mango could walk back and forth inside it and play with his toys. His food dish hung fine on the nylon mesh and I got a screw-on hamster water bottle so water wouldn’t spill if I had to run for a plane. An important factor because as organized as I am, I’m always late -- especially for flights.

I made sure to get Mango his own plane ticket (it was my stipulation to Universal for me to go on short notice that they fly my bird too) so he would be flying in the cabin with me -- I would never let a small bird go in cargo. Plus, a ticket insured that there wouldn’t be any problems bringing Mango on board, or so I thought…

Getting your bird a ticket doesn’t buy them a seat. It allows you to keep them under the seat in front of you or on the seat next to you if it is empty. I had specifically asked for reservations on the emptiest flight out, which also turned out to be the latest, which was fine with me. I was pleased when I was told the plane was only 30% full. I requested a seat at the back of the plane, which I was told would be no problem since there were so many open seats. The reservationist even said she was sure I’d end up with two seats so Mango would likely be on the seat next to me the whole way.

When Chutney arrived I called the airline to add him. I was lucky: there are only two pets allowed per flight on most airlines, and I got both spots. Plus I reconfirmed that the plane was not fully booked and was told it was still “empty.”

I did everything right but it all went wrong and I could never have predicted the series of events about to unfold at the airport…

On travel day I was proud of myself for getting to the airport in plenty of time and all went well at the ticket counter. There wasn’t a long line, they had the reservations for both birds, there was no problem checking all my luggage (remember, I was to be away for two months and two season changes, one that included sweaters, boots, overcoat, etc) and the enormous box that housed Mango’s “travel cage.” It was a 2’ x 3’ flight which I’d filled with his toys, bowls, food, and all of Chutney’s newly acquired things (she was still sleeping in a box, not fledged to a cage yet). I didn’t want to take any chances even though were going to Atlanta, Georgia, a major city. I had no idea how far the nearest well-stocked pet store would be or when I’d get a chance to get to it. And finding lory food and other items isn’t always easy.

I hobbled along towards the gate with laptop and handbag on one shoulder, Mango’s case strapped on the other and Chutney in hand in a small clear plexi-box with a hatch lid so I could feed her en route.

I didn’t rush because I was carrying several fragile, and important, items and of course I was early. I took my time and talked to both of the sweeties all the way down the long terminal to keep them reassured. Mango was good but he wasn’t so thrilled with the change in scenery. He didn’t see frenetic airport with its loud noises, endless crowds of unfamiliar people, fast trams, security checks, and other alienating features an improvement to home. Regardless of what I said to comfort him he kept repeating his common refrain when he thinks he’s done something wrong, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” in his high pitched, sweet, cartoon-character voice. To which I responded over and over, “no sweetie, it’s fine, you didn’t do anything wrong” eliciting strange stares from passersby.

When I got to the gate I was relieved to see there wasn’t a soul in sight but for the smiling flight attendant waiting to take my ticket. As I handed it to her, I got a glimpse of the horror to come. “Gee, you’re just making it,” she said, “we were about to take off.” I was stunned. The plane wasn’t supposed to leave for another 15 minutes. She said I was getting the “last seat” on what was now a packed flight! All the earlier flights to Atlanta had been canceled due to bad weather and all the passengers were rescheduled on the last one out -- MINE. Most of the passengers had spent the last seven hours in the airport waiting to leave, she told me as she took my boarding pass.

Entering the plane was like going into a horror hotel. A hundred hungry, angry, and tired people glared at me, my two birds and an armful of stuff as I bumped into every arm, hit every foot, winding my way down the too narrow aisle. But I didn’t have far to go. My seat was up front – fourth row, aisle! I stopped dead when I saw it. The flight attendant, desperate to get me seated and the plane on the runway came over instantly. I explained that I was supposed to be way, way in the back, and at a window. She looked at my boarding pass. That’s not what it said as she handed it back to me. I looked down at it – she was right. I hadn’t even checked it because I had an assigned seat; apparently it had been given away.

You could hear a pin drop as I tried to persuade her to let me go in the back and check for an empty seat. “They’re all FILLED,” she growled back. I could feel all the eyes in all the filled seats staring at me. I sat straight down my arms full of birds and bags and tried to get settled with no space to move.

Mango’s case went under the seat in front of me taking up all the leg room. He started whistling in a little louder voice at the new developments. I had to find some space I stood up and eyed the closed upper storage bins to yells of “there’s no room in those!” from other passengers. Finally, with my laptop and bag on my lap and Chutney piled on top, I buckled my seatbelt and settled in for the most uncomfortable flight of my life. Mango had gone back to apologizing a soft voice and I was now whispering to him down on the floor.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard the captain begin the take off announcements. But then the woman sitting in the seat in front of me motioned for the flight attendant. As if I couldn’t hear her she started to complain about Mango! “That thing under my seat is making noise. It isn’t going to stay there for the whole flight is it?!” she said annoyed.

The flight attendant, one of several I got to know well in just a matter of the next few minutes, asked me to make him quiet or get off the plane. I showed her his ticket and explained that he was supposed to be on the flight.
“We can’t take off if he’s making noise,” she said. “I can make noise, but he can’t?!” a logical response which I thought would terminate this concerning new discussion.
“The plane has to be quiet for takeoff” she said losing the little composure she had. All eyes were now on us again and I could feel the other passengers’ blood boiling as each second passed like the mercury in a thermometer stuck in boiling water. People in back started saying, “What is going on! We’re not leaving!? What’s the hold up?!” Others closer to the action were unhappily filling them in on the details.

Another flight attendant joined the first one. I explained to both of them, that he was a bird, he was barely mumbling and there was no reason the plane couldn’t take off. I tried to impress them with the fact that we were both expected on the set of a Universal Pictures film the next morning and we had to be on that flight. This was Los Angeles after all, I figured it should count for something that we were “in the business” but they were nonplussed.

They said I had to get off the plane if the bird wouldn’t be quiet. I refused. Two more fight attendants were called over. There was now a mob of flight attendants surrounding us. I pointed out that there was an infant just a few rows behind me. I said “you think that baby’s going to stay quiet for the next five hours? Are you going to ask its mother to take it off the plane?” Picking on a baby might not have been my best course of action I realized too late.

Finally, the hatch was opened and a supervisor was summoned from the terminal by phone. We all waited, impatiently, for him to arrive. He weighed 400 pounds and was none too happy to have to wind his way down the narrow aisle and confront this hostile audience either. I figured it was all over. I was by now visibly distraught – my mind fluctuating in concern between having to do this again tomorrow or being lynched by the mob around me tonight. I told him I was promised an empty flight and a seat in back. He asked the flight attendant why she didn’t move me to the rear. There were no seats she told him.

I thought it that was it, but this guy turned out to be an angel. “Ask someone in the last row if they want to move up front, to the fourth row and an aisle seat,” he told her. She refused, saying it would further delay the plane unnecessarily. He insisted. In retaliation, she pointed out that Mango was making noise. He looked at me, “he’s just nervous, he’ll quiet in moment” I said and prayed. He nodded and directed his stare back to the attendant. Reluctantly, she headed back. When she made the request you could hear an uproar: passengers in the rear, desperate to be the first off the plane, almost started a riot to have my seat.

As I got to my new row, my arms full of birds and bags, I saw that I was now sitting next to an elderly, sweet-looking Chinese man. I knew instantly he wouldn’t mind the birds.

I raised Mango’s carrier to get to my cherished window seat. As I climbed past him he and Mango locked eyes.
“Beautiful bird,” he said, “does he talk?”
“Yes, his name is Mango.”
“Hello Mango,” he said.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Mango replied, really meaning it.

The rear flight attendant took pity on me and all my stuff, and moved her belongings – which were taking up the aisle seat -- so we could have it. The Chinese man moved there without being asked and promptly fell asleep leaving me with two seats and peace.

As soon as the plane started its ascent into the night sky the infant burst out crying at a decibel level so loud it was shattering eardrums in the front of the plane. Its mom walked it up and down the aisle to quiet it, but that only insured everyone on board got their fair share of the incessant screaming. The infant didn’t quiet until we touched down in Atlanta five hours later. Since it was dark under the seat, Mango was quiet for the duration only ringing his bell toy every once in a while.

Chutney slept through most of the flight and when he woke I tried to feed him but was informed it wasn’t allowed to have pets out of carriers on planes (I found out later about birds who’d gotten out and ran up and down aisles biting ankles until they were caught.) I sneaked him out anyway and kept him hidden under my jacket.

Chutney, who turned out to be a she (a fact that would later cause me more problems than this trip, but that’s for another diary entry) traveled in her plexi-box with me to the production every day so I could care for her. She loved it so much, as she got older she’d squeal with joy when I put her in and got her ready to go. Her first wing clipping came right after she popped her head out the top of the plexi-box and started flying around the inside of the car while I was trying to drive home in a rainstorm during rush hour and I knew that could never happen again. It broke my heart to clip her wings and I drove home in tears from the vet’s office, her very first feathers wrapped in my pocket. (continued below...)

CHUTNEY IN ATLANTA IN HER CARRYING CASE:


When the production moved to Wilmington, North Carolina just before Christmas, I got an anxiety attack just imagining the plane trip and refused to fly. Instead the production company cashed in my tickets, gave me the cash and I drove the rental car the 7+ hours from Atlanta. Stopping was hard because I was alone and as soon as Mango was left alone in the car he started squawking, loud. So there weren’t a lot of bathroom breaks. I was so hungry by the time I got to Wilmington, as soon as I saw a decent restaurant, I pulled into the parking lot, called them on my cell phone and ordered food. I had them bring it to me in the parking lot and gave them my credit card.

Having the birds there when I came home at night and with me through the holidays (on this film no one was flown home, the shooting schedule was so tight) was well worth the hassles of our arrival. But I was so terrified flying again, I toyed with the idea of driving cross country to get us back to Los Angeles, though it didn’t seem a much better alternative.

When I bit the bullet, I made sure that I had a confirmed seat, the window in the last row. And I checked it twice before I left for the airport. This time the plane was half full as promised and the birds were the hit of the flight. Everyone came back to see and coo at them and tell me how beautiful they were. Chutney was now fully interactive and had plenty to say. The flight attendant even let me take her out of her plexi case since I assured her she was clipped. Chutney was so happy, she let everyone pet her.

Our return flight restored my faith in humanity, for a short time anyway, and got me over my fear of flying. Now I wouldn’t hesitate to do it again but not without an absolutely confirmed seat in the back.


MANGO AND CHUTNEY, CHRISTMASTIME, WILMINGTON, NORTH CAROLINA (TAKEN DAYS BEFORE THE RETURN FLIGHT...)

]]> tag:parrots.org,2007:index.php/47.1446 2007-06-25T07:28:00Z 2007-06-27T05:36:53Z Mira Tweti Mira@Miramarmango.com
Plus there is the issue of lifespan. It is supposed that the birds live longer in captivity though there is no knowing because not enough of any species of parrot have been banded and tracked for the length of their lifetimes. I have been told that rainbow lorikeets could live to 35 in captivity but I have never heard of one doing so and especially on a captive diet.

Speaking of dietary issues… Mango and I ritually have breakfast together and beyond that there is something else we have in common...

It all started one morning when he and I simultaneously discovered he loved butter. I turned around to find him beak deep in the yellow stuff. He was making the bird equivalent of a purring sound as he gorged himself in my tub of unsalted whipped. Of course, I took it away immediately. His body can’t really process fats (as was witnessed by the fact that the bottom of his cage was covered with butter the next day -- it had gone right through him, his little body not knowing what to make of it). I couldn’t believe he actually liked it. Where would he see anything like it in the wild? A girlfriend of mine pointed out that it’s not good for me either but I like it too.

Things have escalated since then. I still like to have butter and he doesn’t know how to take “no” for an answer. Now, when I want to have some on a piece of toast (a simple enough wish) for breakfast I brace myself and begin a new battle in the BUTTER WARS.

Mango eyes me constantly while we eat breakfast. Covert operations are needed if butter is to make it to toast, and then to my mouth without being intercepted. First I give him fresh Lory food. He eats out of bowls on the kitchen counter (like a dog or cat would). While he’s busy eating I quickly sneak the butter out of the fridge, hiding it behind me as I go past him. When the toast is ready I butter it, my back to the bird, across from him on the opposite kitchen counter. I glance over my shoulder, huddled over my meager piece of toast in the hopes that he doesn’t sight the yellow stuff. But old eagle eye is not easily fooled.

Usually, while I’m still clandestinely buttering at breakneck speed he’s flown onto a shoulder for a better view of my activities. If he spies anything resembling butter he’ll streamline down an arm faster than you can say the word and eat it out of my hand. He is persistent to say the least. If I switch hands, so does he. Over my head doesn’t help because he’ll try to land on the toast -- he can fly remember. The usual result is a Mexican stand-off: I get a couple of quick bites, he manages to get a little butter off the top, the toast then goes in the garbage and we both settle for a neutral bowl of cereal (milk and soaked bread is what the first imported Lories were fed by British merchants who brought them home to England).

I recently found myself hovering over a piece of cherished warm buttered toast in a corner of my kitchen glancing over my shoulder to make sure he was none the wiser until I realized that I was being terrorized by a bird the size of a banana.

Leave him in his cage you say? It’s hard to break a bird (or a person) of habits, especially ones they enjoy. Breakfast with me is one of the things Mango looks forward to. When I’ve tried to leave him in he lets me know in his loudest voice --while he paces back and forth in his cage like a little Napoleon -- that he wants out, especially if he sees me eating without him so I feel twice as guilty (does this make me avian co-dependent?). He doesn’t like butter substitutes so that is one recourse. But, then neither do I.

The sad truth is Weight Watchers is calling my name so the butter wars with Mango may be my karma to giving up the fattening yellow stuff* myself.


*I have since gone vegan and the fattening yellow stuff is now a thing of the distant past...



Mango, the butter-lover :

]]> tag:parrots.org,2007:index.php/47.1445 2007-06-25T06:57:00Z 2007-06-27T03:40:24Z Mira Tweti Mira@Miramarmango.com A Lory Story

I was a cat person from childhood. My mother fed perhaps a dozen strays in our Manhattan brownstone’s back yard. We knew them all by name, disposition and dramas. Years later, when I broke up with my long term boyfriend he got the ever-shedding Persian and I bought a pair of easy-to-care- for Finches. That was the end of cats and the beginning of my life with birds. If anyone had told me then that I would find a bird smarter than any of the smartest cats I’ve owned, with a personality as distinct as a human’s and more fun loving than most of the people I know, I would not have believed them.

One July, as I had for several years, I went to the Lotus Festival at Echo Park Lake in Los Angeles. The local Buddhist temple I belong to has participated in this neighborhood get together of Pacific Rim culture for many years. The festival is a lively and colorful mix of food, performances, Dragon Boat races and vendors of all kinds. My teacher leads the procession of monks in the ritual to open the “eyes” of the dragon figures on the boats so they’ll speed their rowers to the winning circle.

Over the years I bought several more pairs of finches (if anyone had told me my beautifully decorated living room would sport flight cages to harbor an ever increasing variety of finches I would not have believed them either) from two very nice guys, that breed all kinds of birds and have a booth at the festival each year. They have since become my friends.

This particular year I went to say hello to them and saw the most beautiful bird I had ever seen standing atop one of their cages. He was about eight inches high, had purple and black on his crown, a bright yellow band around his neck, light green on his back and red and black stripes on his chest. I was told he was a hand fed baby Rainbow Lory. I just couldn’t get over him. It was love at first sight. Here, you can see why:


My girlfriend said “You don’t need another bird,” which was absolutely true. He was nowhere near as inexpensive as any of my finches, and I was in the process of getting divorced and on unemployment to boot. But I looked at him again and he cocked his head to look at me and that was that.
As we were leaving the park with the bird in a cage we saw one of the monks; an ever smiling, gentle man from Sri Lanka. He saw my Lory, commented on his beauty and wished me luck with him.

A couple of weeks went by and I realized I could not keep my finches. It was just too much work having four large cages in a not huge living room. Plus, the finches and the lory were on different diets (seed and liquids respectively). I decided to donate the finches to my temple’s large garden aviary.

The monk who had been at the Lotus Festival was there to open the gate for me when I arrived. As we walked to the garden aviary he asked how my new bird was doing. I told him how Mango (my Lory’s name) followed me all around my apartment, waddling along behind me like Charlie Chaplin. How he would lie on his back, feet kicking in the air, allowing me to rub his tummy with a finger as he tried to catch it with his feet. How he’d hit a ball to me with his beak. And what an amazing personality he had. Without hesitating the monk said: “You’ve known him in a previous life.” Needless to say I was surprised to hear that. “Are you sure?” I said. “Yes,” he sais. “When an animal ends up having extensive interaction with you, like living in your home, it’s not accidental. It means you have some Karmic connection to each other.” I commented that maybe it wasn’t so great that he came back a bird and not a human this time around. In Buddhism one strives for enlightenment which is hard enough to accomplish in a “precious” human birth and theoretically much harder from a bird life – though, in time I would come to find out Mango was much more enlightened than I am. The monk replied, “Look how hard and complicated your life is. Look how easy his is. You take care of him and he gets to play with you and he has no worries. A lot of people come back as animals to have an easy life in between human lives.”

Needless to say, there’s no way to know for sure. But after that I often thought of who he might have been in a previous life? I’ve become convinced from the way he behaves that in his last life he was a runway model for a high fashion designer, like Giorgio Armani. He religiously bathes every day (and is out of sorts if he misses a bath), he will not allow a tiny feather to be out of place in his perfect coif, and he oves the feel of silk so much I get bitten if I try to stop him from rolling on my expensive silk shirt when it’s laying on the bed.

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