Apple

They call me Apple. I am a Mexican Green Conure -- Aratinga holochlorus, if you care to be precise. Sharp beak, sleek feathers, well-kept yet still carrying the marks of a changed life. I was taken out of my previous home when my dear caretaker could no longer care for me. The Mickaboo crew came to get me, as they have done many times before, for many birds before me.

The first thing they noticed about me was my wing -- how it sat wrong against my side, crooked like a tree branch that had never grown right. No mistake escaped their eyes. They took me to an avian vet, sharp and swift, and there I learned of the injury, old, deep, and never properly healed -- much like a man`s elbow, broken and ignored, left to stiffen in ways the world was never meant to see. It doesn`t pain me much, not anymore. But I`ve learned, as we all do, that I shall never soar among the clouds. No thermals for me. No flight. The Mickaboo humans have adjusted their care to accommodate my limitations, and now the world is fitting itself around me, as it should.

As for the rest of me, I am not so bad. People, I like them well enough. I`ll perch on a shoulder, I`ll step up when asked -- but step down? That, I have not yet learned. The Mickaboo man who first worked with me called me a "bratty bird" with an affection he didn`t try too hard to disguise. It was true, I suppose. In my previous life, I had free reign. There were no rules. No guidance. It was a thing I could have loved, had it not been so dangerous. I learned that, too late. Now, here in the care of Mickaboo, I am learning to follow the rules. I am learning restraint. But it`s a process, like everything. Time is the teacher.

When I arrived in foster care, I was thin. There were ribs I could count, feathers a little ragged. Now, though, it`s different. My foster mother has fed me well. She has seen to my needs and nourished me, and for that, I am thankful. They think me between five and ten years old -- young for a conure, they say. My feathers are smooth, my skin taut, and my muscle tone, while not remarkable, has its own quiet strength. My voice, though -- it carries. I am a conure, after all, built for volume. I keep quiet, mostly. But when I speak, you will know it. Those with delicate sensibilities should perhaps reconsider, for I am no companion for apartments or small spaces, not unless you can endure the full measure of my voice when I am moved to make it known.

I have no great love for close contact with other birds. I tolerate their presence, so long as there is some space between us. I prefer a little distance. The ideal home for me? I think it would be one with a variety of good food, where hands are ready to feed me, and companionship is given in kind. A few birds to converse with might suit me well, though I have no wish to be forced into a flight I can no longer make. Safety is what I seek, and quiet is what I crave -- unless, of course, I decide to make my presence known.

If all this sounds like the sort of thing you might be prepared for, you know what to do. Seek out the Mickaboo Conure Coordinator. They will know how to find me.

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