My Beginning

Sammie’s Great Adventure

            I wonder if my human dad knew what he was getting into when he married my mom. Oh sure, he was very much aware that she owned a menacing looking Doberman named Mookie Wilson, that in reality might only injure someone by licking them too hard. Dad grew to love that dog but little did he know it was only the beginning—just a small glimmer of what was to come.

            He can’t say he wasn’t warned. When they moved from Arizona to Ohio, she told him that a home with land would be the best choice so she would have room for some animals. She just didn’t say how many—or what kind. And even when she added a horse, he didn’t mind. He even enjoyed sitting on the patio with his evening cocktail while he watched the mare, Miss Rambunctious, graze in the front pasture—the gentleman farmer relaxing after a hard day at the office.

            But maybe he should’ve sounded an alarm after the seventh horse (or what the veterinarian called, her “pasture pets”) arrived. Or after the two miniature donkeys, two geese, two pot-bellied pigs, barn cat, English Mastiff, Great Dane and Italian Greyhound or when their friends started referring to their house as the “Canfield zoo.” He never knew what would be waiting for him when he arrived home every evening. Life was good.

            And then…everything changed.

            Where were you on September 11^th, 2001 when the terrorists attacked our country? The day when Americans stopped feeling safe and secure and instead sat in disbelief and fear and sorrow, watching those terrible events unfold on the television screen?

            I was caged and in the cargo area of an airliner on my way to New York City. But then, the flight was rerouted to Youngstown, Ohio and when it landed, the flight crew had to figure out what to do with me. At three months old, I was still being handfed and I made it quite clear that I was hungry and scared! The flight Crew called the local Petsmart and asked for help and luckily, the shop agreed to take me in, thereby saving my life.

            Three days later, my human mom was visiting the very same pet store still shaken and sad about the events of the past days, she found it comforting to be around animals. She remembered the stories her cousin had told about Seth, her African Grey, and, just on a whim, she asked the employee if the store had any African Greys. When the clerk told mom about my interesting rescue and let us meet, face to face, the rest, as they say, was history. And, when she saw the conditions I was living in—a boring, enclosed room with only the view of a wall—and how I reacted when I was put back into the small cage, well, that was all it took! From that day on, she was there twice a day, learning how to feed and care for me so we could go home together! After all, with the menagerie of animals she already had, what was one more? And how much trouble could a little bird be?

            But first, I needed a name. My mom was so upset about the 9/11 disaster that she wanted to name me America. Family members gave her strange looks as if to say, “What…why?” It was my dad who talked her out of it and thanks for that! Can you imagine meeting people and having to explain your name over and over again? Instead, the name Sam was suggested as in Uncle Sam but that posed another problem. My DNA came back as me being female. So… I became Sammie.

            Now, don’t get me wrong. I appreciated being out of that little room and in this big house in a much more spacious cage. But my mom had a lot to learn, starting with my dining preferences. The kitchen became my feeding station and included a large syringe, thermometer and a ton of paper towels. The temperature of my bird formula had to be perfect: too hot and I’d get scalded, too cold and I couldn’t digest it. She had to slowly inject the formula into the side of my beak rather than directly down my throat so it wouldn’t go into my esophagus. But even if she got that part right, the feeding itself was a messy business and if the formula got on my face or feathers, she would try to wipe it off and I hated that part so I showed her what a temper I could have.  There was even formula on the ceiling (don’t ask).

             “Work with me, Sammie” she would sigh. Clearly, she didn’t know who was running the show yet.

            But despite the mess, feeding time was when we bonded. It was a two-way street: she was my human mom but I considered her part of my flock (okay, she was the only other member of my flock but who’s counting?) She would feed me and I would show my love by trying to feed her in return. In case you’re wondering how, I offered her “parrot puke”: regurgitated food that I deposited on her hand. I know it sounds disgusting but don’t know it till you’ve tried it!  And every night we cuddled for at least an hour, something that we still do and I love every minute of it. If she doesn’t come and get me, I squawk at her! (I never said I was always sweet.)

So getting back to the care and feeding of Sammie—I also need a shower every day. It’s essential to my well-being. I have feather dust (kind of like your dandruff!) and if I was in the Congo with the rest of my family, I would probably be rained on daily.

Problem is, I hate showers—which Mom figured out the first time she tried! You think cats hate water? You ain’t seen nothing yet! The neighborhood could hear my protests so imagine what it did to her ears. After Mom’s battle scars started hitting double digits, we reached a compromise: I’d agree to weekly baths and she would settle for misting me with a plant sprayer the rest of the time.  

           People are always very interested in me and my antics so mom started writing a newsletter, just to share the ornery things I’ve said.  Then, when people started e-mailing her tons of questions about me, she gave me my very own Facebook page! Pretty soon, people began asking me questions—some funny and others more serious—and I discovered that I loved giving advice! Mom has become my typing servant —which keeps her off the streets—taking down everything I say from my little acrylic carrier right next to the computer. (I have to keep an eye on her and make sure she is getting it right. I do have a reputation to uphold after all.)

             I hope my story of being rescued inspires you to do the same for an animal someday. Oh, and about my cousin, Seth. He laid an egg not too long ago and is now in counseling for gender reassignment.