Feminine Mystique

By Tammy A. Parker, DVM

Tammy A. Parker, DVM is a 1993 graduate of the University of Georgia College of Veterinary Medicine. Currently employed at Loving Hands Animal Clinic in Alpharetta, Georgia (a suburb of Atlanta), Dr. Parker is responsible for exotic animal medicine and surgery. She acts as an advisor for the Georgia Department of Agriculture and volunteers her skills at the Chattahoochee Nature Center Wildlife Clinic. She is an active member of the Association of Avian Veterinarians.

"His name is Max. Here’s the paperwork for what already has been done medically for him. My other vet doesn’t see birds, but she’s kept him alive until I could get here." The man’s fingers inched toward the pack of cigarettes in his left shirt pocket. "I know you can fix him. Just call me when he is."

I looked at the stack of paperwork, the man in front of me and the gray thing lying in the corner of a cage which was held together by twisted bits of wire. The gray mass of feathers appeared devoid of spirit and likely of life very soon. The man left a deposit with a long distance number and walked out.

Max was supposed to be a ten year old, male, African grey Timneh that had been purchased by the man eight years previously. He had been the ex-wife’s prized possession until divorce. The man kept him because he talked in the ex-wife’s voice. The previous veterinarian’s notes indicated that Max had been on a seed mix for eight years minimum. The owner was a heavy chain smoker. Max lived in the den and did not go out. Since he liked to bite the owner, he was cage bound, but he did get an occasional grape. Apparently, the cage, with all its twisted wire bits, was Max’s castle.

"I’m so sorry," I whispered. I longed to touch him and offer some comfort that said all people are not this way. I knew that was not what he needed or wanted, if he was still there. A shallow breath indicated he was still among the living.

Max had been on some assisted feedings, gentocin (a strong antibiotic), and fluids for a week for an upper respiratory tract infection. It did not sound like there was any improvement. He certainly did not look it.My technician rushed around getting blood tubes, injectable calcium and vitamins, fluids, culture swabs, and food for gavage for Max. "Anything else?" she asked. "I really don’t think so----maybe a DNA sexing kit. We are already running every test I can think of. I don’t think he’ll make it through this, but if he does, we’ll get radiographs in awhile," I responded.

After the samples were collected, Max was placed in the incubator with towels to prop him up. He didn’t make a sound, nor did he struggle even a little during the entire collection. "Probably the cleanest place he’s had in a long time," I thought grimly.

I always try to walk a thin line between helping a patient and not setting myself or the owner up for miracles. I try to be as realistic as possible, tempered with hope. I felt none for Max— only anxiety.

I decided to take Max home with me that night. It was Friday night and the emergency clinic was already slammed. I had only Rose, my macaw, at that time, so quarantine for Max could be handled easily in my bedroom. I did not sleep much that night but Max did.

The next morning, Max was placed on a fairly vigorous schedule of antibiotics, antifungals, fluids, calcium supplements, feeding and cleaning. Poor Max was familiar with the "no rest" lament of many patients in a hospital.

My husband was surprised when I started bringing my patient home. He did not say anything, as he seemed to understand Max’s need to have something good happen to him. I would awaken my husband and we would check on Max. "Why do you keep waking me up?" he finally asked after the third time. "Because I don’t want to watch him die by himself!" I cried. My job is to offer help and comfort for owners and patients. Without an active owner, I had placed myself in that position for Max. And finally, two days later something good did happen.. Max started perching on a low perch.

With Max finally appearing as if he might start feeling well enough to eat on his own, I began agonizing over whether or not to improve his diet. This is hard enough with a "well" bird, much less one flirting with death. Dinners were switched upstairs to my bedroom. Technicians ate lunch in front of Max and were a delightful comedy trying to gain his interest. Max decided he loved pinto beans, so we hid everything in them. One day I had a mini-breakdown in a new grocery store that did not have them in stock. "How can any grocery store in the South not stock pinto beans?" The manager and my husband shook their heads, looking at each other in exasperation. "Women!" was written all over their faces.

Max’s bloodwork, which looked as bad as he did at first, improved along with his attitude. The final diagnosis was severe respiratory disease, complicated by long term malnutrition. Thankfully, no Aspergillosis, beak and feather disease or metal toxicosis were found. He was lucky.

I finally got the owner on the phone after two or three weeks of trying. "Sounds like he’s doing great with you," he said. "Yes," I replied. "I thought we might spend some time discussing management and how to keep him healthy." "Well, I think he’ll be much happier with you Doc. Sounds like he’s fitting right in.. Can I call you back?" I did not hear from him again; but he did send me a note stating that Max would be given to me, if I would accept him. I could not say no. Besides, I think I always knew Max would be mine if he lived.

The day the note arrived relinquishing ownership, my technician approached me. "I’ve got something for you," she said. In her hands was Max’s sexing certificate. Max is a girl! I thought of her previous owner and how he never would know. "Women, you just can’t understand them," I said for him.

©2000 Tammy A. Parker, DVM