This Parrot Refused To Be Touched What He Did Instead Left Her In Tears

Okay, so I need to tell you about Rick. And I want to start by saying I did not plan this. I was not a bird person. I didn't grow up with birds. I had no opinion on birds. Birds were just things that existed outside. And then one day I walked into a pet shop. I wasn't even there for a pet. I needed something completely unrelated, can't even remember what. But I walked past this cage full of cockatiels, maybe 10, 12 birds, most of them half asleep, doing absolutely nothing. Except for one. This tiny gray bird was running from one end to the other, hanging off the bars, climbing over the other birds who wanted nothing to do with him, like he'd had too much coffee and also needed to be somewhere 10 minutes ago. And then he noticed me. Stopped. Full eye contact, little orange cheeks, crest straight up. I left with a cage, a bag of seeds, a booklet called Your First Cockatiel, and him. Never got the thing I came in for. So we get home and I go to pet him. Rick looks at my hand like it's the most offensive thing he's ever seen. Doesn't bite, doesn't freak out, just leans back and stares at me, deeply unimpressed. Like, who do you think you are? We don't know each other like that. So I do everything right. Sit near his cage every day, talk to him, hold my hand out and wait. Rick would walk over, look at my hand, think about it and turn around and walk away. Every single time. Like he considered it and found it lacking. Weeks go by, then one night I'm not even trying anymore. Just at my desk with headphones on and I feel this tiny weight land on my shoulder. I froze. Rick was sitting there, completely relaxed, like it was the most normal thing in the world. He'd been watching me this whole time, figuring me out. And at some point he decided I was okay. So he came over, on his terms, in his own time. After that I couldn't get him off my shoulder. He doesn't want to be held, but he wants to be near you. Always in the same room, he just does it his way. And I didn't understand why until I looked it up. In the wild, cockatiels live in flocks of hundreds. They're almost never alone. So when you bring one home, you become the flock. You become the whole world for that bird. When I leave the apartment, Rick waits. The second I walk back in, he puffs up and settles down. You're here. We're fine. Rick has opinions. Loud ones. A sound for everything. The happy sound. The I-see-something-interesting sound. The I'm-annoyed sound. And the where-did-you-go-come-back-right-now sound, which is significantly louder than all the others. Over time I started calling him Rikushechka, Rikusha, and he learned all of them. Says them back to himself sometimes, quietly. He also learned good birdie, good boy, because I said it a thousand times. Now he says it on his own. I'll be in the kitchen and hear him the other room going, good boy, good boy. Like he's his own hype man. But the best thing, the thing I genuinely look forward to, the food announcement. Rick has decided that eating is a significant public event. So before he eats, he announces it. Rikusha is going to eat. Every time. Cucumber, apple, banana, doesn't matter. It's not a question. It's a statement. He is informing you. He also loves chewing things, which is normal for a cockatiel. What I did not anticipate was the wallpaper. He found a corner in my room and decided it was his. Looked at me. Peeled a strip. I said, Rick, no. He looked me dead in the eyes and peeled another one. Rick has never once followed an instruction he didn't feel like following. Why would the wallpaper be different? I lived alone before Rick. I liked the quiet, or I thought I did. Then this bird came and made the apartment feel full. Like someone was always home. There's one moment out of six years I keep coming back to. I was having a rough day, that kind of heavy tired that sits in your chest and you can't shake it. Just staring at the screen. And Rick flew over, landed on my shoulder, leaned his head against my cheek and started singing. This quiet little melody right next to my ear. And he stayed there. The bird who won't let me touch him. Who has rules about everything. And right then, he was singing to me. And it helped. 90 grams. 30 centimeters. Stubborn as anything. And he can live up to 30 years. 30 years of wallpaper damage, food announcements, singing, and shoulder landings. I walked into a pet shop six years ago with no plan. Best thing I ever did.