A Bird's Life
The other day, as a dear friend and I were having a physically-distanced, masked-up, outdoor work session, several birds flew in and out of one of the tall, full trees standing solidly in her backyard. They sang and spoke to one another animatedly. My friend smiled and said, “Aw, see? How you feel about your dogs is how I feel about birds.”
“I feel the same way about birds as I feel about my dogs,” I replied. And it’s true. In that moment I could not — and in this moment I cannot — think of a single animal I care for less deeply than the dogs I claim as part of my family. I wish for all beings to be free and to live out their lives in joy, freedom, connectedness, and excellent health. I stand in awe of the beauty and wonder of all living things.
I love to observe the dogs of whose pack I am grateful to be a part. AND, I love to observe birds. AND, whenever my path crosses that of any other living creature — these past few days, for example, my path intersected those of coyotes and dogs and cats and flies and birds and moths and ants and spiders and lizards and humans — I am grateful to have the opportunity to observe life being experienced. I marvel at the myriad of ways in which life is expressed.
But I would never bring a bird into my house, unless it was injured and I could help it. Birds are meant to fly. Outside. With other birds.
So I suppose in that way I do feel differently about dogs than birds. I have dogs in my home because we have created a society in which we kill dogs if they are not under the control of humans. Dogs are wonderful companions, and I could not adore the ones I call my packmates more if I had birthed them myself. But if we lived in a time and place in which dogs were allowed to roam freely, I would leave dogs to their own devices and marvel at them whenever I had the opportunity to witness them living their lives — just as I do with birds.
Since I live in this time and place, I take “my” dogs out as often as possible to places where they can be off leash and run and play and be free… for a time. On walks, I let them decide where we will go and when we will stop to sniff plants or give our attention to others. I think of how much I dislike being interrupted while deeply engrossed in reading and never rush “my” dogs — I let them take their time as they “read” the scents that stop them in their tracks. I want their lives to be lived as freely and wildly and aligned with their true natures as possible.
I want that for birds, too.
I want that for all living things.
A few years ago, I housesat for a couple who had a dog and an African Grey Parrot. When they were reviewing their care instructions with me, the couple told me to please let their parrot out of its cage once a day for at least fifteen minutes. I was shocked. Fifteen minutes per day, only? That means the parrot would be inside its cage for twenty-three hours and forty-five minutes each day. There was no way I could do that to the poor bird. Birds are meant to fly, not be cooped up in cages.
The couple told me to be very careful when I let the parrot out, as they had accidentally opened the kitchen door while their previous bird was out of its cage and the bird had flown away, never to return. I fought my innate impulse — as one living creature who values my freedom recognizing another living creature’s desire and right to freedom — to purposely open the door and let “their” parrot fly away.
Though I learned the very first day I let the parrot out of her cage that I would not be able to do anything other than hang out with her whenever she was out of her cage (because she pecked at my book’s open pages, at my journal’s cover, at my pen, at my laptop’s keyboard keys, and at my mobile phone’s camera and protective case), I still let her out of her cage for at least three hours each day. And I felt horribly guilty. Twenty-one hours per day in a cage! A bird!
Each day of the three-week housesit, I sat with the parrot, observed her, talked to her, and giggled at her antics. I cleaned up her poop, gave her treats, and stroked her head, neck, and back. She sat on my shoulders, on my head, and on my arms. She flew across the small room, hopped about on the countertops, and explored all the nooks and crannies of the kitchen over and over and over again. I often recognized in her a fellow being losing her mind. Just as she would start to stretch her wings, she would reach the end of the kitchen. There was no space for her to be a bird.
When it was time for me to return the parrot to her cage, I felt brokenhearted. No living thing should be relegated to a cage for any period of time, let alone for the great majority of its life.
I probably should have opened the door and let her escape. Even if she died that very day, at least she would have known freedom during her life.