memoirs - Aristotle

Aristotle was a white cockatiel. These birds are specially bred to imitate the coloring of the cockatoos after which they are named. Aristotle did not have the personality of my previous cockatiels; I got her so that my daughter wouldn't discover that the one she gave me got away.

I'd gotten into cockatiels because my daughter's cats kept eating the expensive canaries. And cockatiels seem to be much more friendly. I'd walk around the house with one on my shoulder,having to remember that fact before I left the house. Fortunately I had a neighbor who was an animal rescue specialist; with clipped wings, a cockatiel could not get far, and would usually land in the neighbor's yard, so I could bring him home.

Aristotle survived my trying to exist in my own business, and then my contract work. While he turned out to be a she, and therefore didn't talk, she did chirp a lot and squawk if I left the room. She got especially chirpy when the science fiction television shows I watched went on - she recognized the theme songs. And there was a commercial for a male enhancement drug which had a whistling theme; she always chirped then. I used to tell her her boyfriend was here.

She tended to walk the room, when I'd run out of work, then walk up my leg till she could get on my shoulder. She loved to hide under my hair and whisper to me. And she would drink saiva from my lower lip.

When I got my kitten, Kutey Kat, the cat was trained to leave the cockatiel alone, despite the fact that KK was a great hunter. They kept each other company when I had to leave for a week or more to tend to my mother. She would squawk at my son when he would enter to care for the apartment when I was away -- like all cockatiels, Aristotle liked company.

I eventually got Aristotle a big cage, and sought to find her a mate. I had Socrates sexed, and he moved in. While they seemed to get along, one morning I discovered Aristotle dead at the bottom of the cage. Since Socrates was feisty, I suspected he attacked her. But after talking to other bird lovers, we concluded she probably just died of old age. There was no blood, only a couple of feathers. We jokingly decided that Socrates tried CPR on Aristotle. More likely, he tried to get her to stand up.