The Learning Curve

12/03/09


As anyone who has ever brought another species into their home can attest, there's a huge learning curve. We humans refer to it as training, but we're careful not to specify which one of us is being trained. We approach the new relationship handicapped with expectations, out of which we have created a whole list of rules. We are absolutely certain we are not going to make concessions when it comes to our demands. What we fail to understand is that our new bundle of fluff has come hard-wired with the only rule that counts: Cute is always trump.

Hopefully, before you even enter into the relationship you already know the newcomer has specific requirements, which have to be met. I had owned Cockatoos for a long time, so I felt I was well prepared to provide for a Macaw. I was sure the essentials, food, water and a safe environment, would be a snap.

My education, and training, began the first day Jackie came to live with us. I remember getting her up that first morning and being somewhat surprised to find she had gone the entire night without making the expected biological deposits on the floor of her cage. If I'd thought about it at the time, I might have realized she was thinking nestbox, not living quarters. It's been my experience that most parrots keep a very clean nestbox. If I'd made the connection, I wouldn't have made my first major mistake.

For some reason, I thought I could make a quick trip to town on her first day in her new home. After breakfast, I put her back in the cage to keep her safe while I was gone. It was only for about three hours, but when I returned I discovered she had sustained a number of injuries that were a direct result of trying to force her way out through the bars. Although I fully suspect she was registering an objection to being confined, to this day I wonder if the instinct to keep the nestbox clean wasn't also a factor. Regardless of her motive, my own lesson was painfully clear: What I had thought a safe environment obviously wasn't.

After dealing with the trauma, I put her on top of the cage. In less than thirty seconds, she was running around on the floor. I found her some toys, and returned her to the top of the cage. It took about a minute and a half for her to get bored and shinny down the side of the cage to the floor. This was a huge new space to explore, and she was adventurous. She was also determined. So was I. A certain amount of mess was expected, but biological deposits scattered about the floor were not an option. I was accustomed to well behaved birds that stayed where you put them. Jackie would have to comply.

It was a classic case of irresistible force meets immovable object. Which of us was the more determined remained to be seen.

I got busy and built an elaborate perch for her. I knew enough to know that if you want the bird to sit on the perch, there has to be room for the tail – more than two feet of tail, in this case. There also has to be stability, easy access, and a place for toys. Another consideration is the potential mess. If you've ever cleaned a barbecue or oven grill, you'll know what I mean when I say you don't want the bird sitting above all that wire. You only have to clean one cage to know bird biological deposits probably have a half-life in the vicinity of five thousand years.

I called on my considerable experience with birds in general, and, after several hours, eventually came up with a well planned perch arrangement. Jackie very obligingly showed her appreciation of my efforts by taking almost five minutes to go back to exploring the floor. She had found a mirror, and I had foolishly provided something to stand on so she could see herself. Nothing on her fancy new perch could even compare.

Needless to say, by this time I'm starting to think there wasn't a lot wrong with playing on the floor. The biggest issue, or so I thought at the time, was going to be learning to go back to the perch every twenty minutes or so to take care of business. I thought this out, and figured she would learn if I just kept taking her back and making her stay there until she had complied with my request to 'make a turd'.

All of this occurred nearly eight years ago, so I don't remember the exact sequence of events. At some point I moved Jackie into her own room, and created a 'chair' for her at the kitchen table. This was essentially a perch on a stand, with newspapers on the floor underneath, and well below, that beautiful tail. It worked very well, and we still use it today. She still preferred to run around on the floor, stopping for brief naps whenever she became tired. Much to her delight, her friend in the mirror [we named her Jill] showed up every time she did. I would dutifully carry her back to her chair at specific intervals, and she soon learned to 'make a turd' whenever she was there. We occasionally had accidents, most of which seemed to appear on the carpet between the kitchen and her room. I covered the carpet with some inexpensive plastic tablecloths, which more or less solved the problem - the accidents were much easier to clean up.

Eventually, I began to notice that when I looked after Jackie, we had very few 'accidents'. When my husband looked after her, it was a different story. Soon after arriving home I would discover accidents all over the house. This led me to question my whole approach, and it didn't take long for me to realize which one of us was trained to use the chair.

It became clear that if I wanted Jackie to wait until she was on her chair to make a turd, she had to have a reason. She obviously didn't care about leaving them on the floor, so unless I wanted to spend a significant amount of time cleaning them up, I had to provide her with incentive.

I had seen live shows where trainers got parrots to do all sorts of tricks, and then rewarded them with a peanut. I wasn't much interested in teaching Jackie tricks, but I thought the concept of a reward might work in my application. Unfortunately, she didn't like peanuts. I knew I would have to be consistent, and that whatever I used would have to be convenient. A trip to the grocery store was in order.

I wasn't sure what she would like, so I selected two – cashews, and Reeses Pieces [peanut butter insides]. My approach was simple. Every time I carried her back to her chair, she got a treat, along with lots of praise for being a good girl, as soon as she had complied with my request. The difference between the result I was hoping for – fewer accidents – and the one I got, forced me to realize my little friend was a lot smarter than I had given her credit for. After only a few trips to the chair, she started going there herself; and she was so certain about why she was there that she would actually wait until she was sure I was paying attention before carrying out her task. She obviously wanted to be sure she got the treat.

The speed with which she made the connection still amazes me. In less than a day, accidents became exceedingly rare – even when hubby was looking after her. My participation was more or less reduced to popping up to provide the treat – much easier than cleaning the floor. Occasionally, when we're busy doing something and I think she may have forgotten, I will carry her back; but most of the time, she just goes back herself.

Looking back on it now, it seems to me the first two lessons are obvious: As old as I was, I could be trained; and it is not humanly possible to be more determined than a Macaw.