So a long time ago, it was still legal to import wild caught parrots into the US for sale in pet stores. I believe in 1992, it became illegal, and ever since then, all legally purchased birds in the US are domestically bred here.
Back in 1990 or so, a friend’s brother had gone into a dodgy pet shop nearby and purchased a red masked conure on the cheap. He named this bird “Bourque” because he was a Bruins fan.
It took almost no time at all for him to lose interest in this bird, because it turned out Bourque was a wild caught bird, and he couldn’t interact with him at all, because all Bourque wanted to do was bite him all the time. Because, y’know, he was a wild animal and all. I was about 20 years old at the time, and up until that point, all my birds had been budgies, but I had a growing interest in the larger birds. I offered to buy Bourque from him, and he was more than happy to unload him. I paid him $75 for both Bourque and his cage.
I had no interest in having a bird named after a hockey star, but I kept the name and just started spelling it “Bork”. ;)
Bork was, understandably, terrified of everything and everyone. I did not have any other birds at that time, so all of my attention was his. I was slow and patient with him. I got bit. A lot. Like, really, really, a lot. I never forced him to do anything, but tried to work with him a little bit each day.
It was so long ago that I can no longer recall how long the taming process took. Weeks, for sure, probably a couple of months. But one day, Bork willingly stepped on to my hand, and didn’t bite me. Things only got better from there.
He took food from my hand, and then became comfortable sitting on my shoulder. He became comfortable interacting with my entire family. (I was living at home then, finishing my last two years of college where I commuted to school instead of living on campus.) My mother was particularly enamored with him.
He was a fixture in the house, and was always interested in eating whatever we were eating, like anything.
I’ve owned several parrots in my time, but without a doubt, Bork remains the most gentle and loving soul I’ve ever had. More so than any of my hand raised birds. I don’t know if it’s because our bond was so strong because it was based on trust, or what, but god, I loved that bird.
My fondest memory of Bork is this: One day, I was lounging on the couch watching TV, and Bork was on my shoulder. I had my hands resting on my lap or stomach or something… some lazy posture. Bork started climbing down from my shoulder, down the front of my chest toward my hands. He reached one of my hands and very gingerly picked up my index finger in his beak and started backing up. Obviously he couldn’t “carry” my entire hand, but I decided to play along and see what he was up to.
Holding my finger gently, he started backing up, heading back toward my shoulder. I let him “carry” my hand all the way back up there, and when he got there… he put my hand down and thrust his head under my fingers, demanding scritches. My heart melted and I was only too happy to oblige.
I never in a million years would have expected a bird taken from its home in the jungle to become the most affectionate animal I’ve had the pleasure to care for.
Rufus joined my flock after a few months (he was a gift from my brother for my 21st birthday) followed by Mickey a few months later (she was a gift from my parents for my college graduation). Mickey and Bork, being both conures (though different breeds) got along famously. (I have many pictures of Mickey and Bork together, but I will have to big some of them out and scan them, since they are from the time before widespread digital photos. The ones I’ve posted here I scanned previously so happen to have them handy.)
Not long after that, Bork became ill, and the vet did not know what was wrong with him. He was lethargic and losing weight, despite eating normally. The vet ran test after test after test in an effort to find his malady and could never come up with anything. She tried all sorts of treatments. One involved me having to give him a shot in his chest, just next to his breastbone, daily (which broke my heart, but Bork was a trooper.) That one didn’t pan out, so she tried an oral medication that I gave him with a plastic syringe. That one went easier, because it turned out Bork loved the taste of it, and after he’d have his daily dose, he’d take the syringe from me and lick the end of it, hehe.
None of it helped, and he died in my hands one day. A necropsy after the fact revealed that he had Proventricular Dilatation Disease (also called Macaw Wasting Syndrome), which he probably brought with him from the jungle. At the time, there was no test for it, which is why she couldn’t diagnose it. And it is, to this day, still incurable. I spent a lot of money trying to save Bork, and even though he couldn’t be cured, I don’t regret a single penny of it. I didn’t add any more birds to my flock until 1997 when Beaker joined the family, for fear that Bork had perhaps transmitted PDD to Rufus or Mickey, but after several years, they remained healthy.
Bork is the greatest bird I have ever owned (don’t tell Beaker). I miss him every day.
Me, Bork and Mickey circa 1992 sometime. Mickey was under a year old here. I never did know how old Bork was… how could I? (Please ignore the terrible photo of me and my poofy 90s hair.)
