Giving and Receiving

Hoping to write about a pet other than a dog or cat, we reached out to Village View bird writer, Keith Michael, who gave us a recommendation. Here’s the story of Bert and Ernie. ─ Joy Pape and Brian Pape

By Sharon Steinhoff

ERNIE CELEBRATES HER 25TH BIRTHDAY in May. Photo credit: Sharon Steinhoff.

In December 2001, when my husband, John, and I brought a pair of black-headed caiques into our lives, we had no experience as bird owners. We were inspired by a colleague of John’s, who shared stories about his caique — how clever and intelligent she was, and how beloved by all members his family. Our children, fraternal twins, were then applying for college, and we thought there was room for a new pet in our home.

Caiques are highly social small parrots; they love to perform and generally behave like perpetual two-year-olds while bonding strongly with their human owners. The store where we purchased ours had a pair of six-month olds from the same hatchery who were clearly attached to one another. We were (easily) persuaded to keep them together by buying both.

Though inexperienced with birds, we were well trained in human twins. Like our children, we could see distinct personalities in our bird duo right from the start, and named them for their Sesame Street counterparts. Bert was gentle and deferential to Ernie, but also curious and quietly bold. Ernie was blustery and loud, a diva; she was first to the food trough and put on a front of toughness, but she counted on Bert to be the #1 explorer. Naming did not change when testing revealed they were both girls.

Owning a caique is not for the faint of heart. As highly social birds, they require attention and stimulation, which includes out-of-cage time to play. They express themselves loudly and they have opinions about what they want to do, how they want to do it, and when. They may convey their displeasure with you by biting. They can live long lives. Ernie celebrates her 25th birthday in May. She may live another five years ─ or more.

I am a conflicted bird owner — worrying continually about whether the life I am providing is “better than” the life they would have had in the wild. Seeking to understand the world from their point-of-view has given me a fresh perspective of my place in a wide universe of living creatures.

Bert and Ernie’s deep intelligence was on continual display. They knew the ring of the doorbell might lead to someone at the front door. They knew the footprint of our apartment, and looked for our children in their bedrooms after they’d gone back to school. They recognized return visitors, and held grudges against some of them.

Their behavior during Hurricane Sandy in 2012 was particularly memorable. With no electricity for more than a week, we lived by candlelight and the warmth of the fireplace. The neighborhood was eerily quiet. Bert and Ernie, too, were quiet, even docile, and did not complain about being caged throughout the blackout. Did they sense the abnormal? Had the serious storm alarmed them? I’ll never know.

Sandy honed my awareness to their sense of safety. I noted their sensitivity to shadows in the windows adjacent to their cage; how they cowered on the far side of their cage in heavy rain or snow, lacking understanding of the window’s protection; how bold they felt when perched at the top of their ladder, above my head, than when I towered over them. I saw how strangers in the house made them go quiet until they were confident in what was going on.

Birds can lay unfertilized eggs. Bert was a serial egg layer and laid at least one egg most springs. Over time, this put a strain on her body, and in the spring of 2021, we learned she had a serious heart condition.

During this painful time, Bert gave me confidence at long last that we had, in fact, given her a beautiful life. Despite her terrible sickness, she wanted her routines to be the same: to sleep on her favorite perch, to eat from her trough, to play outside the cage with Ernie. She did not want any of my pampering. When she was exhausted, she only wanted to rest on her familiar spots in or out of her cage. So we provided props to grant these wishes, with short stints being hand fed when she was too weak to stand. Ernie did not understand; she was frustrated with Bert’s inability to keep up — she wanted Bert to be her old self.

Bert died that September. At first, Ernie seemed confused about the empty adjacent cage, as if she expected Bert to show up. After two weeks, we removed the divider between the cages and Ernie occupied the whole space and with remarkable ease.

Bert’s death underscored the longevity of our bird companionship. Bert and Ernie were present for our children’s college graduations and leaving home; the deaths of our fathers and John’s mother; job changes; the renovation of our apartment; our son’s marriage; and many memorable journeys in the U.S. and abroad. In all these events, caring for our birds remained a responsibility, too.

In August 2024, my husband, John, died unexpectedly. John toweled Ernie for the night, and in the morning, he was gone. Ernie quickly understood it was just me now. She knew when I put on my sunglasses (or hat), she would be at home alone. She developed a habit of checking my whereabouts when at play outside of the cage — sometimes calling out to make sure I was still there. She does not like me to work in my office where I am out of her sight, and quiets down if I sit at the counter near her. When I come home late at night, she calls from under the towel, and is reassured to hear my response.

Now in my family home, it feels like Ernie and I are united in some symbiotic way. Beings that we knew are gone, and we just have each other. Perhaps she has memories; I know I do.

I’ve doubled down in trying to give her a full life. The front closet has become her play area. She climbs over the shoe rack and around the vacuum cleaner. She hopes I’m not looking when she scales the coat rack and tries to get behind the suitcases. She’s learned to go quiet when I say, “Where are you?” and she knows she’s somewhere she shouldn’t be. I feel a sense of mischievous surprise when I find her.

In this circle of life, we humans often discover surprises at many turns. In that December 2001 train ride home with Bert and Ernie in tow, I could never have imagined how this companionship would play out or how life enriching it would be.