Laura Erickson's For the Birds

Last summer I found myself in a pet store, buying some mealworms for a hurt kingbird. I was waiting in line at the checkout when a baby cockatiel in a nearby enclosure looked me straight in the eye and walked toward me with a solemn expression, and somehow I felt in my bones that that little bird expected me to buy it. So I did—the first bird I ever paid money for in my life. It was too young to determine the sex for sure, but it made a lot of whistles and calls, increasing the probability that it was a male, so I named it Farley, though as it molted, I discovered that she was a girl.

Farley is a wonderfully pleasant bird, sweet natured and patient. When out of the cage, she perches on my shoulder or hops about on my desk, not making too much of a mess, and takes shower baths in my kitchen sink, but only when I say it’s okay.

Cockatiels are not native American birds—you’d have to go to Australia to see them living wild and free, but they’re a common sight in arid areas Down Under. They breed almost throughout the year, coming into sexual readiness whenever rainfall and seed availability are good. They also readily breed in captivity, as we discovered with Farley one morning when I was out of town and my son Joey was cleaning Farley’s cage—there on the bottom were two beautiful little white eggs. The next day there was a third, and a couple of weeks later, she laid two more.

These eggs are like those from a grocery store—unfertilized—so they can never hatch. We didn’t know how old the first two eggs were, or how fresh, but my husband Russ blew out the last three. The yolk broke inside one, and a bit of the residue discolored the shell, but the other two are perfect. I’m thinking of lacquering one for a necklace. I only wish I’d made a tiny omelet from the three we blew out. I don’t know anyone whose ever eaten an omelet made from cockatiel eggs—that might be a gourmet treat.

Farley doesn’t seem attached to her eggs—she hasn’t seemed to want to incubate them or anything. It’s been fun seeing real eggs produced right in my home office, but these are infertile—lovely, yet empty inside, utterly devoid of the promise that should be inherent in our Easter-time symbol of rebirth and renewal. I don’t know if the world needs any more baby cockatiels, but I may soon find myself looking for a Mr. Marley for my little Farley.