From the “You never know what’s gonna happen next” Department:
My wife and I walked into our spare bedroom last night and my wife asked: “Is it dead?” She was referring to one of our Love Birds. After examining the body from several angles, I responded in the affirmative.
Here’s a brief history of our lovebirds: In 1997, we purchased a Love Bird on a whim, from a private breeder who, on the same day, sold us a cockatiel. Within weeks, we felt sorry for pretty Tango. She was lonely. So we returned to the bird breeder and purchased a friend for Tango, whom we named Tequila. A funny thing about Love Birds is that they are, like Killer Whales, improperly named. They are extremely territorial, and they only bond to a human if they are given oodles of contact. They don’t even love each other. They are quite finicky regarding their mates, and even if they choose to bond with a mate, they will frequently bicker to the point of drawing blood.
Anyway, Tango died in 1998. Coincidentally, at this same time, my wife and I had been raising and feeding a baby female love bird by hand, whom we named Twoey. Twoey bonded to me quite nicely but, when Tequila was widowed, we placed Twoey in the cage next to hers to see if they would get along. They fell in love; it was not uncommon to walk in on some hot lesbian fornicating.
Sometimes, we’d notice blood on one of their faces, or on their feet, but it was nothing serious. Their love-hate relationship proceeded fairly stable for nearly a decade.
Yesterday, around 5 in the evening, I went into the spare room, noticed the two birds hiding under some chewed up paper (as they are wont to do) and made a mental note to clean the cage this coming weekend. That was the last time I saw them both alive.
Six hours later, we found a Love Bird corpse on the floor of the cage.
Did I mention that the #1 cause of death among Love Birds is…cannibalism? Maybe now would be a good time to mention that.
The dead bird was not lying in peaceful rest. She was mangled and bloodied, her feathers were wildly out of place, her beak was hyper-extended and her head was tucked under at a frightening angle. Her yellow feathers were pink from blood. Her mate had blood on her face and chest.
Funny thing is (not ‘ha-ha’ funny), we’re not sure who died and who lived. Although we’ve had all manner of colorful birds in the past, it just so happened that these two torrid lovers had exactly the same coloring and disposition.
So now, our house is home to one, single, Love Bird. She’s sitting on her perch right now – a cold-blooded fratricidal psycho. Seething…waiting…waiting…she’s coming for you next.