Dear Prudence,

I am a young Patagonian conure bachelor.  Up to this point in my life, I have never cared for anything other than my food bowl.  Yes, I do tend to get rather attached to my bowl.  In fact, I have a rather unfortunate habit of squeezing my substantial body through the feeding slot and hopping into the bowl whenever my owner tries to remove it.  I vigorously whip my head back and forth in the food, slinging pellets, vegetables, fruit and beans everywhere.  It's a shameful admission, but it's true.

Then one afternoon my people brought home the most beautiful, amazing, feathered being that I have ever laid eyes upon.  She is a deep emerald green with a stunning yellow collar and flashing orange eyes.  Her feet are of the palest pink.  My heart beats faster just thinking of her feet.  Her name is Snooky and the name haunts my dreams.  Snooky, Snooky, Snook-n-Boots, my Bookie Toots.

I call to her.  I strut about on my highest perch with my chest puffed out and my yellow legs a flashin'.  However, she doesn't even know I exist.  She only has eyes for the man of the house -- an old, graying fireman who doesn't even have yellow legs.

What should I do?

Sincerely,

    Dillinger

AKA: Dilly Dilly Coco Puff

Dearest Dilly,

Ah, the bachelor life….   I remember my days as a young bachelorette.  Before the reality TV show existed, so very many Mr. Congo’s and Mr. Timneh’s asked if I would “accept their rose”.  The first impressions when they stepped out of their limos, the one-on-one-dates, the dreaded flock dates, spending the night together in the fantasy tree…..but I digress, Dillinger.  May I call you Dill, darling?

Dill, darling, I understand you are all a flutter with this Snooky tart.  If I were a little younger and you were a little older, Snooky would be in a year long quarantine, sequestered with a couple of complaining Cockatoo curmudgeons, no cable TV and her only source of entertainment being a 1986 copy of Time magazine.  But I am not being fair to you, Dill dear.  Logically, when I am not an option, any handsome bachelor must resort to sluming for love.

This is my advice.  Straight and simple.  Drop the tart and eat your vegetables. 

Tah, tah, young love.

Your Pru

 ******

Hi Prudence,

 I am a parrot slave in the U.K, my biggest worry is what will happen
to my birds when I pass away. They are all about 5 years old and I am 53
so I know they will outlive me and I feel terribly guilty. Can you advise
me on the best course of action? I would love The Gabriel Foundation to
take them as it’s something that really worries me.

Thanks, Karen

Dearest Parrot Slave,

I happen to be looking for a good reliable housekeeper who cleans cages, just in case the slave gig doesn’t work out.

Darling, there is one thing you must remember about my species – parrot.  We are gorgeous, highly intelligent, creative beings who believe we are superior to other species and, as a result, turn our humans and inferior household pets into indentured servants.  It’s a fact of life – get over it, snap out of it, shake a tail feather, and you’ll be just fine.

As much as we wish you could help your feathered darlings out, because you and your birds are not living in the US, getting your birds into the US or even to TGF is impossible due to CITES and agricultural restrictions in both of our silly countries. But you can get many ideas from TGF about how to provide for your feather dusters’ lives after your demise. I am SO proud of a human for thinking about what happens to OUR lives when you move on before we do.

So, dear Parrot Slave it is imperative that you make plans for your long-lived feathered loves before you free fly in the sky.  But if you’d like to visit TGF on your next trip across the pond, I know that you’d be honored to partake of my wit, humor and fabulous vocabulary. Perhaps we’ll

see each other at Will and Kate’s upcoming nuptials. I’ll be the one with grey feathers and a red tail. Meanwhile, go to market and get some special treats for your beloved birds – perhaps some fiddlehead ferns are just the right spring treat.

Your dear Pru

******

Dear Prudence,

I’m new to The Gabriel Foundation but I wanted to be the first birdbrain in your new column because I’m grey, just like you. I can only see your face and cool hairdo. Is that natural? I wonder if you’re like me – I am missing some of my feathers. I feel bad about it, but I can’t help myself sometimes. I lived at another place for a long time, maybe 14 years. I had a great friend but he passed away a few years ago. After he was gone, his wife took care of me, and we got along fine. I like her and she likes me. She’d play ball with me, gave me plenty of good food to eat, had two cages set up for me and we got along OK. I used to talk to her a lot and she kept me busy saying different words. I liked that. She has a grown daughter in the house where I have been living. It turns out that her daughter’s doctor said she is allergic to me and I have to go. My friend told me she couldn’t live with me anymore because she was moving into a smaller house herself and she was going to be traveling so there’d be nobody to take care of me. I am sad that my life changed because I am a really nice guy. What do I have to do to have someone see how special I am?

Any help you can spare is most appreciated.

Warm wishes,
Chuck


Hello Darling Chuck,

Thank you for your correspondence. Yes, I am au natural – I have always been fortunate to have a beautiful face and figure – and a cousin who lives in Hollywood above a wig store.
That being said, Your Ms. Prudence dealt with and still deals with unfortunate feather picking behavior. Everyone needs their vice – I dabbled in penny slot gambling but – unlike my human companion, did not see the point. But I ramble, dear one. Let’s talk about you.

You sound like a very nice guy. And you play ball? I’ve always been a sucker for athletes. Especially whiffle ball players – such dexterity....gives me goosebumps. Years ago, I met a very handsome Timneh whiffle ball player named Jacquot from the south of France. We shared laughs, love, and a couple of loaves of bread that summer. Unfortunately, he had a wandering eye and Your Ms. Prudence believes in loyalty and monogamous monotony. But I ramble, dear one. Let’s talk about you.

I can see you are stressed by this life change thrust upon you – a change that was not of your choosing. Your loyal friend disappointed you. C’est la vie. My human companion always says, “When life gives you a basket of rotten, moldy apples – throw them hard at the next passerby and poop on their blouse”. My companion, unfortunately, has spent some weekends locked in her room. However, her intent was meant well.

It appears to me, Darling Chuck, that you are throwing rotten, moldy apples at yourself. And by that I mean, blaming yourself for a situation that was not your fault or in your control.

The fact that you sought out my advice, Darling, speaks volumes of your intelligence and good taste. With that in mind, I am sure that you’ll have someone to love you for yourself in no time. Be patient my Darling and eat your vegetables.
Your Dear Pru

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