I did not want a bird. I did not need a bird. I had eight cats and two dogs. I also had eight goldfish. Since they lived outside in the pond, though, they did not officially count.

Then, late last summer, I found a nest in my front yard with a baby bird inside. It was windy that day; storms were forecast. Perhaps the nest had blown down. Or maybe it had come under attack by house-sparrows or starlings: I often found smashed robins' eggs in the grass. I considered: Take the babe and its nest inside, or watch to see if Mom returned?

The wind picked up a bit, and I felt sprinkles of rain. The decision was made.

I gathered up the nest and birdling and brought them inside. It was peeping loudly. I shooed several cats away whose interest was piqued by the sound. After setting baby and his nest in a plastic container, I shut him in the bathroom. I'd been followed by the kitties, who settled outside the door to keep watch.

That first evening, baby bird dined royally on a mash of worms, bread, and milk fed to him on the tip of a wooden match. In fact, he dined royally several times. I wondered if he'd sleep through the night, or if I'd have to set the alarm to get up and feed him.

He slept through the night.

The next day I went to a pet- and garden-center that was going out of business, and bought a cage for about two dollars. Then I went to another shop to find something a baby bird might eat. The clerk showed me a plastic sack containing something that looked like yellow flour, meant to be mixed with water to form a sort of paste. I was dubious. The clerk assured me that they used it to hand-feed the birds they sold. "They love it," she said. She also suggested human baby-food--beef or chicken. So I made a last stop at the grocery for a jar of Gerber's.

I don't know if the birdling "loved" the yellow flour-looking stuff; he ate it willingly enough, though. Once or twice a day I'd mix in a little of the beef Gerber's. He ate that, too.

Over the next few days, I saw that his brown feathers were becoming intermixed with yellow ones. I did a little Internet searching, and wondered whether he was an American Goldfinch, or maybe a Pine Siskin.

He hopped onto my hand when it was feeding-time, and chirped when I came into view, whether it was meal-time or not. He never got a proper name; he was just "Baby Bird." I began thinking ahead to when and how to release him, and was a little surprised at how attached I'd become to this little creature.

I thought ahead too soon. "Baby Bird" wasn't with us for long. He died of a Sunday. I cried as I tossed his cage, with the food inside, to the back of the garage. I couldn't bear to see it. I cried most of the morning while doing yard-work. "It was just a bird," I told myself. I channeled my grief into hours of dirt and plants and eradicating weeds. Then, on impulse, I decided to go to the local pet-shop. "Just to see," I thought. I tidied up, loaded the dogs into the back of my rig, and off I went.

Once there, I browsed, picking up treats and catnip for the cats and some smoked bones for the dogs. Then I walked over to the birds' section. There was an isolated cubicle of Plexiglas about the size of a large walk-in closet. I could hear faint bird-sounds. I let myself in.

Inside were cages with cockatiels, a couple of conures, a very large—and very inquisitive—macaw, parakeets, canaries…and finches. I had to bend down to see the finches—they were beneath the canaries in two cages. One held pretty little striped finches with orange beaks; the other with finches that were brown and white, or brown, or a sort of peach color. They were all so tiny; some had that just-out-of-the-nest look. I watched them for a few minutes, then went to find a clerk.

The pretty striped ones were Zebra finches, she said. The others were Society finches. Most were newly weaned, she said. As she talked, I looked at the birds in both cages. One little Society, it seemed, was bolder and more curious about us than the others. He was brown and white, and had an intelligent gleam in his eyes. He didn't flitter about as nervously as the others. I came close to the bars and poked a finger through. He didn't fly to the far side of the cage as the others did.

"How do you tell whether they're male or female?" I asked.
"The Societies? You can't," she answered.

A moment or two passed. Then I pointed to the little brown and white finch. "I want that one." The clerk took a net from a hook and retrieved the little bird. She put the bird into a little box, filled out an "adoption" form, and gave me an information-sheet on Society finches.

I got a mirror with a bell, some finch food and—remembering the nests I'd seen in the big cage—a little nest-basket. After consulting with the clerk, I also got a box of fluffy nesting material, and a small book on finches.

I could feel the bird's fussy little movements inside the box as I waited to pay for him, and cooed at him through the holes in the box. What on earth was I doing? I did not want a bird. I did not need a bird.

I had a bird.

I retrieved Baby Bird's cage from the rear of the garage and gave it a good cleaning. Once it was furnished it with all the things I'd bought, I opened the box against the cage's door, and in he went. I took him into the living room and settled back to see how he'd do. After investigating the nest, the mirror, and the big bath-dish, he returned to the mirror and began singing. I supposed this meant he was a boy—weren't boy-birdies generally the songsters?

He lived in Baby Bird's cage for a while. Since it was pretty small, I'd hang it from a plant-hook in the ceiling or simply carry him from room to room with me. I started asking him, "Where's that bad bird?" and if he responded in any way, I said "There he is!" He began perching close to me and doing his funny little side-to-side "dance" in front of the mirror.

I named him "Rocco."

I soon got a larger, cottage-shaped cage on a wheeled stand. By then, Rocco had discovered the bell on the mirror. He'd do his little dance routine, warbling and hopping from side to side, then stop to give the bell a quick little ring. He spent so much time with this mirror that I got another—I thought he'd enjoy having more "company." This second one was attached to a feeding dish and had beads strung across it.

It soon became apparent that the first mirror was "Mrs. Rocco," and the second—the feeding dish—was "the other bird." In front of the first mirror, he'd puff up his feathers and dance and sing. When at the second, however, he'd enjoy the treats I put there, then peck vigorously at the mirror or pull at the beads.

I was not the only one who found Rocco's antics amusing. Remember the cats? The eight cats? They watched him intently (all but one, whose sole interest seems to be ensuring that the cat-feeder is kept full). Having read that finches are nervous little birds, I was concerned about Rocco's coping with such close scrutiny. My concern was put to rest when I woke from a nap to see one of the kitties perched on top of the cage and Rocco's calmly observing her from his perch.

I hung bits of thread throughout the cage for him to use in his nest. He put quite a bit of effort into getting the nest just so—pulling the thread into and out of the nest; arranging and rearranging first the boxed nesting fluff, then the cotton I started giving him when the fluff ran out. I noticed that he'd sit in the opening of the nest with his beak agape. Was he sick? No…I was told that he was probably assuming a defensive posture to protect his domain—that opening his beak was meant to make him look bigger and more dangerous than he was.

Then, one morning, I found the entire nest had been emptied of everything. Wads of cotton and thread were scattered about the floor of the cage, and Rocco was sitting on one of the perches, looking rather disconsolate. I consulted with a finch-expert. She explained that Rocco was growing up: he'd done his duty and made a nice home for "Mrs. Rocco," only to have her fail to keep house for him.

Rocco bounced back from his depression—and discovered a new trick: if I opened the cage to refill his food dish or give him water, he'd scoot out, straight up my arm and out into the room. Absolute panic—I'd shoo the kitties and dogs out of the room (one of the dogs, a Brittany, thinks Rocco is her bird), then the chase was on. Flit to the curtains…then flit to the top of the refrigerator…then flit to behind the stove…then, finally, he'd land on the floor and patiently wait for me to scoop him up and put him back in his cage. He had a gay old time when he pulled this trick at Christmas, exploring the tree thoroughly before I finally captured him.

After four or five of these episodes, I got him an even bigger cage—the sort you might see in a pet shop. I figured that if he had room to fly around, his desire for adventure would abate. It did…until one morning when I (before I was quite awake) replenished his water and didn't secure the cage-door's latch. It took him over four hours to find his way out—and only a few minutes to grab him. Guess by then he realized that "out and about" was not an option.

Rocco seemed quite pleased with his new digs, flying from one end of the cage to another. And he soon developed another trick: hovering like a hummingbird before coming in for a landing. The first time I noticed it, he was going into his nest-basket. I figured he was making certain of his target before zeroing in. Then I saw he did it before landing on his perches; his treat-dish…on anything.

The bigger cage was not only to "Sir Rocco's" taste; it also further deterred the kitties. They still sat and watched him on occasion; not as much as before, though. I suppose they realized that all hope of preying on him was finally and irrevocably gone.

Recently, though, he was in the kitchen enjoying the sunshine by the back door. One of the kitties leapt from the top of the refrigerator to the top of the cage and began batting about the bars. I chased Kitty away, then looked in on Rocco. I fully expected to find a panicked little finch. Silly me: there he sat on a perch, with his beak open, looking more irritated than anything else at this audacious cat.

So. I have a bird.

He helps weed the garden by munching on dandelion-greens.

He shares my liking of green peas.

He enjoys the chokecherries growing out back; he does not care for black cherries.

We occasionally share a hard-boiled egg or Grape-Nut Flakes (nice and soggy in milk).

He likes talk radio, Celtic music, and Gregorian chant.

He didn't mind a bit the noise from a reciprocating saw when my back door was replaced (and that is truly a noxious sound). He does not, however, like one bit the sound of the vacuum-cleaner (he buries himself in his nest-basket).

Bed-time is six o'clock—daylight-savings time or no. And it is not time for him to get up until it's full day-light.

I did not want a bird. I did not need a bird.

And I have the odd suspicion that a finch will, from now on, be a permanent part of the ménage.

Article © Jan 2005