This is a story not only about a bird, but incidentally about myself as well; since the two are very much entwined, neither story would be complete without the other. I have had at least one cockatiel in my house since I was 7, and I was so involved with my birds that my friends even nicknamed me after one of my birds. After losing this very much beloved cockatiel to an incident of my mother's carelessness as a kid in, if I remember correctly, 2000, I was crushed but wanted a new bird. My mother took me to my local, favorite pet shop to see the cockatiels, and I immediately knew which one I wanted. Amongst a terrarium full of, perhaps, 10 cockatiels only a few months old, one of them made it his entire goal to climb to the highest point of a tree branch left in their enclosure to stand tall, whistle, and flap at any passing person - frequently losing his balance and looking like a fool in the process. He was an adorable, mottled-looking, very small-framed Whiteface Cockatiel and reminded me visually and behaviorally of the bird I had lost. I told my mother I wanted him (I had guessed he was a male at this point by his vocalizations, though he looked almost like my female before) and said she wasn't allowed to be near him for a month - he was my bird, he was staying in my room, and she wouldn't have a chance to hurt him. Probably, in the back of my head as a bit of emotional overreaction, I also didn't want him to like her either, as I was hardly ready to forgive her for losing my pet.

I got him his own cage, took him to my room, and proceeded to watch him and make sure he grew comfortably in to his new environment. His cage was by the window in my room so he could look out, but the only time I saw him actually go by the window was to whistle and call when he saw me approach the house. I occasionally brought my other Cockatiel, Pearly, in to interact with him, but his favorite spots, by far, were on my lap, shoulder, and under my chin. It was the summer (or perhaps just nearing summer) when I got him, and, without school, I spent most of my time inside with him and my computers - especially playing an online game called Tribes, which had a number of voice samples. The first non-Cockatiel sound out of his beak was actually a word from the game shouted in frustration: "Shazbot!" However, he didn't speak for very long - he ended up being much more musically inclined. While I was in my room, I almost always had electronic music on too. Whenever a song with a nice (according to him) beat would come on, he would climb to the top of his cage or my chair and shake his head in time with the music. I'd always mimic back to him the shaking with my head, and his name quickly dawned on me. I called him Rasta, after the groovy Rastafarians I had pictures in my head, bobbing their heads to music. Eventually he would whistle and chirp in time with the music as well.

After some time 'living alone,' I let Pearly and him move in together in the same cage to keep each other company. Rasta was jealous whenever I scratched Pearly and not him, and he would try to recapture my attention by climbing to my shoulder, leaning in to my mouth, and singing to me in Cockatiel. Perhaps it was the 'quarantine' - living with just me instead of with the other birds and my mother too - but he grew very attached to me. He didn't want to be out of the room I was in, wasn't terribly interested in my mother, and only thought of Pearly as 'the bird taking up space on the other shoulder.' When school started again, I switched from my mother's house to my father's, and, Rasta found a new buddy in my dad. Rasta, always the whistler, was fascinated by my dad's interest in whistling songs to him. He'd frequently leave my shoulder for my dad's and try to strike up a song. My dad actually taught him his first song, an excerpt from Gershwin's "An American in Paris", which is more than I was ever able to do at that point! About the same time he took a more vested interest in Pearly - he would whistle to her and she would chirp back. Pearly was always much more of a 'give me a shoulder or leave me alone' type of Cockatiel, and would wander off of me when she was bored. Rasta still liked being in the same room as I was, but if Pearly climbed down to the floor, he would frequently follow right behind her, whistling wolf whistles or just happily engaging in whatever activity she was doing. Pearly seemed to enjoy having someone else speaking her language, but, otherwise, wouldn't give him the time of day in the least.

Rasta's excitement about Pearly only grew once I started the next school semester and he was spending more time away from me. Instead of whistling to me to try and get my attention when I scratched her, he would whistle to her, jealous of me! I taught all my birds poor manners, and they always ate people food at the table with me. One of Rasta's favorite tricks was to steal food from my plate and give it to her, proudly whistling as if he were the Robin Hood of the dinner table. When her feathers would come out during preening/molting, he'd even go so far as to pick them up and bring them back to her: "Ma'am, I believe you dropped this?" Time flew, and Rasta grew up quickly during the school year. He eventually lost his 'baby feathers' and turned into a real Whiteface - strikingly handsome, bright white cheeks and wingtips, and dark, silky gray wings, back, and tail. In my Junior and Senior years of high school, I took photography classes, and my classmates in the darkroom loved seeing prints of him so much that I brought him to class a few times. Not only was he handsome, he was photogenic! At least half of my film in those two years had to have been pictures of Rasta.

Skipping ahead a handful of years, I eventually graduated high school, found myself in an internship which led to a full-time job, and was suddenly financially able to move out. I mentioned around my office that I was looking for a place to stay, but I was a little concerned finding a place to live for myself, 2 cockatiels, and 2 budgies. One of my coworkers said he had a couple rooms he could rent out to me, and he already owned medium-sized 4 parrots too - it was a perfect fit. I moved up there in 3 trips with my car - two for my belongings, and one for the birds. I put the budgies in the main room of his place, where they would enjoy the noise/activity and company of other noisy birds, but after a couple days, I decided to keep Rasta and Pearly in my room. Rasta seemed unnerved by the amount of bird activity and lack of a safe, quiet room. When I was home, they'd come in the main room with me, and Rasta, having never interacted with larger birds before, did the only things he understood: either panic and hide, or whistle. One of the birds, a Caique, seemed to think of him as mostly a noisy little snack waiting to happen, but another, a Senegal, responded with his own muffled whistles. Even with all the feathered friends about, Rasta kept to the shoulders of the humans in the house, and seemed happy to be with Pearly and myself or my housemates.

After a series of adventurous moves, the place I found myself at for the longest period was a small studio in San Francisco. Rasta was not keen about all the pigeons showing up on the windowsill, but was otherwise pleased with the nice, small space where we were living. After moving to San Francisco, I started to meet more friends, and Rasta was frequently being introduced to new people. He always wanted to be the centerpiece of the 'apartment tour,' and quickly learned to belt out his best songs as soon as he saw a new person. He continued reliably, and my friends were fascinated that he would hop off of me to be on their shoulder, continuing his serenade. He was always excited to meet people, impress them, and make sure they weren't getting too cozy with his 'gal,' Pearly, and. As such, I put his cage in the walkway by the door, where he would greet its opening with excited exclamations in cockatiel.

In my San Francisco apartment, Rasta also discovered the joys of showering. He always enjoyed taking baths in the sink, following Pearly's lead by trying to hop in the sink whenever I was washing dishes, but the curtain rod in my new bathroom was very close to the shower head. Whenever I took a shower, he'd join me on the curtain rod and whistle his songs to Pearly. Eventually, chasing her along the rod, he got a splash of water on his breast. He opened his wings in excitement, leaned over to expose his feathers, and started flapping as I would splash little bits of water on him. He did this for a few weeks before eventually deciding he needed something more efficient. One morning, he leapt from the rod on to my head - I snagged him off, held him close to the splashing stream of water, and he squawked and flapped with so much happiness that I felt bad eventually getting out of the shower. Every morning when I woke up to shower, I made a point of waking Rasta up before the shower so he could join in if he liked, and on weekends I'd run a longer shower so he could enjoy himself even more. Pearly never quite mustered up the courage to do it, but Rasta's excitment inspired her to climb down on to the shampoo bottle rack hanging from the shower head to get a few sprinkles of water every now and then. Rasta loved the water so much, I could rile him up by just blowing air on his belly. He would open his wings, squawk happily, and lean over as if he was taking a wind shower.

After 2 years of a very long, daily commute, I decided I wanted to be closer to work and moved to San Rafael. This was a much, much larger space, and Rasta was even unnerved at first. A familiar sight, my bicycle, became his frequent hang-out spot and 'home away from cage,' so Rasta spent hours sleeping on its wheels, of all places. Around this time, though Pearly had not been too keen on Rasta's affections, I came home one day to something totally new: Pearly's head was down, and she was letting Rasta scratch her. They were cuddled together in the cage, and after years of Pearly not letting any bird touch her, she finally gave in! Hey, I couldn't even resist him - looks and a pretty voice to boot - so trust me when I say she's one tough cookie. From that point on, though she would frequently peck him away, she would occasionally accept a neck scratching from him, and she would even move close to him to sleep if it was a cold night. While Rasta would always respond to Pearly's chirping, Pearly was now squawking back to him when he made his exclamations for long dialogues in cockatiel. Rasta, of course, could never settle for just one gal, and would still try to sing and kiss his way on to the shoulders of any of my female friends (and less frequently, my male friends).

I was getting thoroughly in to mucking with technology at this point, and made a point of setting up a webcam pointed at the bird cage that I could watch at work. One afternoon it even proved to be more of a bird 'security system,' as I witnessed Rasta very carefully undoing the fastener on his cage door to escape and triumphantly fall asleep atop his cage. I had a microphone set up as well for a little while, so I could even listen to his occasional home-alone chirps. Beyond that, I was starting to DJ as well, and, practicing at home, Rasta finally got tired of fighting his new shoulder-competition, the headphones. He responded ingeniously by climbing down to my mixer and falling asleep, effectively preventing me from using it, or trying to sit on my hands.

After a about a year and a half in San Rafael, I moved northward again. My new place was much smaller, and Rasta thoroughly enjoyed the central location I gave him next to the kitchen. He happily sung while watching me cook, usually because he wanted to taste whatever it was I was making. By this time, he had acquired a very refined palate for his favorite foods. He went crazy over steamed broccoli, loved rice and popcorn (he learned those ones from Pearly), and would always go for carrots. Although he picked this trick up from Pearly years ago, he would always finish his meal by asking for a drink of water from my glass, taking a few sips when I obliged, and then chirping a thank you - perhaps he was just clearing his throat, but it always sounded very appreciative! His cage's new location was right next to my home server too, and, running all day, made a nice, warm spot for his naps. Whenever he wanted to sleep, he would climb down the cage and on to the computer, and whenever he woke up, he'd climb back up to demand some play time.

Between December and January of 2008, I took a road trip away from home. When I went away, normally, I left my birds with my old bird-owning roommate, but he was out of town too. I set up the webcam again so I could check in on the birds, and asked my Dad if he could check in on the birds every couple days to feed and play with them. He asked if he should just take them to his place, and, while I tried to convince him they'd be fine there alone, I reluctantly agreed it would be okay. He would just check in on them for about a week, then take them to his house for 2-3 days right before I got back. While I was on the road, I used my phone's internet access to check the birds' webcam - they were totally fine, happy, healthy, and playing together from time to time. I called my Dad every other day to ask how they were doing, and he supported what I saw on the camera - they were doing well. I got back home eventually, calling that morning to let him know I'd be back that night, check in on the birds (he said they were fine), and let him know that I'd pick them up the next morning. When I got to his place, excited to see my happy, healthy birds that I missed, they were both very despondent, and Rasta was very visibly ill - he could barely stand up, was extremely fluffed and shivering, and was nestled in my Dad's neck to stay warm. Pearly was quiet and depressed but did not seem nearly as physically weak. I asked my father what happened, and he was not even aware that something was wrong with them.

I took them home, turned on my heat lamps (which Rasta went sprinting for), and called my vet. Since it was Sunday, I was only able to speak to the advice line, and she suggested keeping them warm until I could bring them in to visit the next day. I spent a long time investigating online and watching him to try and discern what was wrong. He wasn't eating, was fluffed and sitting under the lamps while only making the slightest of squeaking noises, and barely had any grip when I picked him up. I took Rasta and Pearly to the vet the next day, and they said I could call back in the morning to check in. For the next few days, I called in to see how they were doing, and the answer was the same - it wasn't clear if they were recovering, and they couldn't figure out what was wrong from the blood samples. I asked my father to think if anything strange had happened while they were at his house - if they had eaten anything strange, and so forth. He recalled that he had sprayed a very toxic chemical foam window insulation in another room of the house and may have tracked in some dried particles of that on his clothing (and I thought they could have inhaled some of the fumes, even though it was far away). I told the vet about this, and he said the only thing to do was to take good care of them and hope for a recovery. Every evening I visited them at the vet's to sit by their heated terrarium and talk to them. They were always huddled together, clearly very depressed and ill. Rasta wasn't even standing as much as he was leaning on the glass case, but even in his very weak state, Rasta would squeak little songs to me when I talked to him. On the third morning of their hospitalization, I called in to see how they were, and the vet's assistant on the phone told me Rasta had passed away.

I was completely stunned. I had known he was very ill, but I had just talked to and seen him the prior night. From my perspective, this was completely sudden. I thanked the assistant and spent the next hour with my head down on my desk. I got no work done that day, went to pick up his body from the vet's afterwards, and went to my father's house to dig a space and bury him in the rock garden where I had buried another lost bird many years ago. The vet had told me Pearly was still not doing well, and when I went to visit her that evening, I had a very hard time seeing her alone. I stayed out of the house for hours that day along with the next, afraid to be in my home, quiet without the birds. Pearly was at the vet's for another week and a half - within a few days of Rasta's passing, she perked up enough to want to come out and be handled. I visited her every evening for that week and a half, frightened terribly of losing both my birds, and my vet was kind enough to let me have access to the office after hours and on weekends, when I could visit twice a day.

She made a wonderful, eventual recovery, but when I finally brought her home, I felt emotionally gutted. They were a pair, and seeing her run around alone was even harder than being home alone without any birds at all. The reality of the situation really hit me once I brought her home, and, while she was at least twice as talkative as she used to be with Rasta, I could also tell she was lonely being in the cage all day. Rasta was the source of constant noise in my apartment too, and I missed his singing most of all. He was my favorite bird I've ever kept and very much my bird - he was so attached to me, and I was just as attached to him. I love Pearly too, but, while she would happily wander off alone, Rasta would only leave my side to follow her.

The day after his passing, I wrote this small epitaph to share with some of my friends. It's hard to describe or sum up just how much Rasta meant to me, as evidenced by how much was written here in an attempt to represent it. What I wrote then is concise, but true: "Beloved friend, skillful cuddler, music lover, accomplished singer, grayscale goof-off, ladies' man. You died long before your time and our home is too quiet without you. We'll miss you."