An Ancient Lament

An Ancient Lament | Lessons from Icarus

Meeting Icarus for the first time was somewhat of a big deal. In August of 2000, Jason and I had just started dating and I knew that this introduction was very important. I wasn’t sure how I would react when I met him, but the moment I saw him I felt my heart fill with love, and I still love him to this day.

Icarus came to Jason’s life in 1990 as a one-year old African Grey Timneh Parrot. A beautiful and highly intelligent 8.5-ounce buddy. A powdery white mask surrounded his eyes and connected at the front of his face where the two halves met. There, resting on either side of his hooked beak were two dark nostril holes. Soft, rounded, little feathers covered the top of his head and swept around his white mask filling in his cheeks. These speckled feathers quickly transitioned from the chalky white around his eyes into the dark warm grey that covered his neck, shoulders, and wings. When stretching his wings, he revealed the hidden parts of his tummy and back that slowly shifted to a lighter shade of not quite white feathers, dappled with specks of a soft light grey. His dark shadowy tail was accented with beautiful rich deep maroon feathers, perfect for a proud and curious bird. His talons gripped his perch as he rubbed his beak on the wooden dowel. Then he looked at me with his light-yellow eye as his pupil adjusted to the light.

Suddenly, he pushed off into the air and took flight. He flew around the room and aimed for a large and floppy plant, which was extremely difficult to land on.“I don’t think so” said Jason as Icarus abandoned the idea of settling in the plant and began to fly in the direction of his perch. He may have been going too fast or didn’t quite calculate his landing accurately, and over shot his perch hitting the lowermost part of his body and tail. Flapping his wings, he made a recovery and backed himself up enough to safely grip and steady himself on his roost, and without hesitation Icarus said, “Oops, dammit.” And then he laughed. Yeah, he really did that. I immediately got Icarus’s sense of humor. This was the beginning of a magical and wondrous relationship I had with a bird.

He was an amazing companion for both Jason and I, like a two-year-old little brother. Not only was he good at cracking jokes, but he was also very affectionate. He would lie in our arms and snuggle, warming our hearts. Ear rubs were always appreciated and welcomed. We would push aside his little feathers to reveal the soft skin around his ear and rub him there in soft circular movements as he cocked his head to achieve the prefect angle.

Ick demonstrated his understanding of our words and world through his own extensive vocabulary. For example, he could count to 5. He did this slowly in a low pitch from 1 through 4 and then, proudly, he would raise his tone and finally say 5. We would hold up various fingers and ask him “How many?” and, when he was in the mood to play along, Ick would say the correct number. One afternoon Ick was out on the kitchen counter. Jason was holding up two fingers and asked Icarus, “How many?”After a long pause, Ick didn’t answer. “How many Ick?”Jason repeated. We waited. Nothing. “Icarus, how many?” With his head hung low Icarus just looked at Jason. “Two, Icarus, two”Jason said. Immediately Ick jumped up and said “good boy” followed by a laugh.

It took time and care to get to know Ick’s individual qualities, and to understand the nuances of his personality as he changed over the years. But always he was an excellent listener. This was impressive, a consistent unwavering ability to listen. He would ‘play back’ noises that he heard. For instance, the sounds of my morning routine of making coffee and feeding the cats were echoed through Icarus from his cage. I would reach for the cupboard and I would hear the soft squeak of the cupboard door opening as Ick made this noise before the cupboard was opened. He would make a highly exaggerated sound of me drinking my coffee before I drank. He would make the sound of my coffee cup hitting the counter top before I set it down. He would make the beep of the refrigerator before I pushed the button to get water. It would go on like this most mornings, even if he was drowsy from a late football game the night before. The truly remarkable thing wasn’t the fact that he actually did this, but that he did it from the other room where he couldn’t see me.

Sounds of the past stayed with Icarus, and when he expressed them he touched our hearts. “Hey Dad”was often said the way Jason would say it when he called his Dad on the phone. Icarus continued to say this on occasion years after Dad had passed. Icarus would also “meow” in the same soft way my orange tabby cat would “meow” six years after he passed. Haunting were these sounds that would arouse memories of love and loss.

There was a very soft ‘vooooo’ noise he would make that was strange. He did it often and none of us could figure out where he learned to make this noise. For years, we would listen to him when he made this sound and wondered, what was he saying? Where did that come from? One morning I uncovered his cage and said “good morning.” I would usually say this a few times hoping he would pick up on that words and really say ‘good morning’ back. While unlatching the door and then reaching in to get him out I stopped when he began to make that ‘vooooo’ noise. The house was quiet with very little traffic outside. I listened, but I didn’t hear anything. “Vooooo’ said Ick as he looked up at me. Then I heard it, there in the distance was the sound of a train blowing the horn. I guess we didn’t realize the noise was a train because there was usually more noise in and around the house. Or maybe we assumed the noise of a train to be a ‘cho cho’ sound like we were taught when we were little. I was impressed with Icarus’s ability to accurately articulate every sound he heard, when he wanted to. He loved the sound of the train.

His extended vocabulary included words such as “Cookieeee” “Want that?” “What you doin’?” “Good Girl” “Studioooo.” The list goes on and on. When we were leaving the house Icarus would say “Goin’ to the studio?” When we said “Funky Chicken, come on Ick, do the Funky Chicken” he would spread his wings half way and flap them in the strangest way while moving his head from side to side. When we said to him “Eagle”he would spread his wings wide while holding tight to his perch or our finger and flap his wings hard creating busts of rushing air with each grand wing gesture. He liked the word “kisses” and he asked for them often and we always gave them to him. On occasion, when Jason and I would happen to have a quiet intimate moment that usually included a hug, Ick would interrupt us with a long drawn out “Aaaah.” This made us laugh every time.

Ick loved music. When my daughter Alexandra would practice violin Ick would join in bobbing his head to the beat with various loud clucks and whistles. This would be such a distraction that we would have to give him a cookie to quiet him down so my daughter could finish practicing. Then he would watch her as he dunked his Pecan Sandie chunks into his water and quietly nibble. We would dance with him mostly in the living room with the loud music streaming over the speakers. He would position himself on my finger, as I held it out for him horizontally. I could feel his steady grip around my finger tighten as we moved and danced together. His version of dancing was raising and lowering his body to the beat as he did the ‘head bob’ like a rock star, while at the same time he would ‘cluck’loudly and perfectly timed to every other beat. This clucking actually sounded like someone’s fingers stamping, only louder, much louder. His favorite playback was the whistle sound from the song “You Dropped the Bomb on Me” by The Gap Band, where he would loudly repeat the high-pitched siren sound and slowly drop to a lower tone. When he was on a roll he would do this over and over and over. Then we would give him a cookie to quiet him.

On Friday morning of February 5, 2016 Icarus wouldn’t give me ‘kisses’ and I just thought he was in a mood. When he was perched on the faucet above the kitchen sink I gave him a bite of a homemade scone, which normally he would accept with a cheerful chirp of gratitude. But this time he abruptly threw it to the side. He did have a bit of a temper. For some reason he would attack electronic devices. To this day the ‘mute’ button on one remote continues to display ‘ute’ because of one of Ick’s nasty bites. When he was really bad and needed to be disciplined, well, Jason usually handled him, and I mean that literally. He would turn Icarus upside down in his hands and Ick’s tail would curl over his tummy in a way that was somewhat reminiscent to a lobster’s tail. It didn’t hurt him, but Icarus would squawk. Sometimes he just needed his space and we would give it to him. However, as the day progressed Ick pretty much kept to himself.

Saturday morning Jason took Alexandra to her basketball game and Ick slept in unusually late. It was about 11:00 and I was getting ready to leave the house, and I wanted to get Icarus up and ‘give him some ear’ before I left. I woke him gently with sweet talk and echoed ‘good morning’ as I folded back part of the dark green blanket that covered his cage. Light entered as I started to unlock the door and I could see him clearly on his lower perch. Immediately I could tell he was very sick.

Alarmed at his condition, Jason took him to see a bird specialist at 1:00 that afternoon. After running tests, the veterinarian said that Icarus was either dehydrated or he was experiencing kidney failure. One would kill him, the other would not. We were devastated. He was supposed to live another 30 years. We had planned for him to go to college with Alexandra. We moved his cage to the smaller bedroom on the second floor where we set up a space heater to keep him warm. We watched him in shifts, observing his pain and thinking about what we would do if it really was his kidney. Reluctantly, we decided that if Ick was going to leave we wanted him to be with us at home, not alone in an incubator.

On Sunday morning when we woke him, Icarus was very weak and in much more pain than the day before, however he was peaceful and slept a lot. It was heart wrenching to helplessly witness this as he slowly lost his ability to move, which started when his talons locked up, then his body, then his wings. Again, Jason and I took turns watching him. Icarus’s still body rested in the groove created by our legs in a towel we place on our lap. He tried to move in various ways but his body wouldn’t let him. The only thing he could move was his head and he did this as he made faint chirping noises. With each breath, a gentle rise and fall movement came from his chest.

Icarus was ever present in my consciousness that entire day. For him I became the ‘pain-eater’ channeling his pain into the abys of love. I intently observed his beauty, his uniqueness, his majestic qualities, and through this act of love I felt my love for him flow through him. I became the ‘giver of love.’ I felt deep gratitude for the many gifts and lessons of wisdom we received over the years from this great master. The entire day I was centered and connected at a higher level. This, I believe, helped him as he faded.

I listened like Ick would listen. I heard music in every noise. The space heater was set on auto and in various intervals it would turn on and off. When it was off the house fell silent. In these moments, I could hear the quietness of the room. I heard cars, dogs, planes, the wind, the house, and of course the quiet hoot of a train. I really listened and found it to be deeply meditative. I heard every sound that came from Ick. Every time he made a “coo”sound and try to move, I would comfort him. I would tell him “it’s okay Icarus,” “sleepy time Ick,” “you’re a good boy,” “night-night.” I would sing to him and tell him happy stories as I pet the top of his head. The day progressed like this. Later that evening on my watch he ‘cooed’ and I felt him move. I sat up and to my surprise his left wing was fully stretched out. His right wing was trapped under his little body as he was struggled to get it out from under him. I gently pulled his right wing out and he spread both of his wings wide. Then, he flapped his wings rapidly as if he were flying. “Oh Icy Bird” I said. The seven seconds that he fluttered his wings felt like an eternity. Then, he was still. I looked in the dark to see if he was breathing, “Ick, are you there?” But, he was gone. He had flown away.