When I first saw Patch, I wasn’t even sure she was alive. She was just a small heap of green feathers sitting atop the pine shavings in the huge flight. I almost didn’t see her. I’d volunteered to help clean cages at a parrot “rescue” and started with the lovebirds.
I moved the sack of fresh shavings, and she feebly staggered out of my way. Without hesitating, I scooped her up in my hand and held her close to my chest. She didn’t weigh anything, she could hardly lift her head, and she was so very cold. She didn’t put up any struggle. She just closed her eyes and fell asleep in my hand.
Emotions in a mess, I went back to cleaning the flight with only one hand, my other cradling the tiny wisp of life I’d found.
I finished up and moved on to the cockatiel flight, bringing the lovebird with me. The lady owning the place entered to see the progress and noticed Patch. “She didn’t look well.” I understated.
The lady frowned and sighed, “She’s just old. The other birds fly down and feed her, so she gets along.”
My head screamed at my heart: Put her down. You are not in any position to be able to help right now! But I knew beyond any doubt that if I left her there, she would not survive. She’d probably be gone come morning. I figured she would be regardless, but was determined to get her somewhere warm where she could at least spend her last hours in comfort. “Can I take her home?” I asked.
Hours later, I dashed about preparing the hospital cage at QT area back at my own home. Within a few minutes, Patch was settled in the glass tank, towels rolled and piled around her, a tiny purple bunny plush for her to snuggle up against. I couldn’t help but berate myself. I was supposed to think of my flock first, and as far as I could see this was not beneficial to them. Something inside me kept repeating, “There’s no hope. There’s no hope.” Patch was too thin, her keel sticking out like a knife with sides more sunken than I’d ever seen. One toe on her right foot looked terribly infected and both her feet were deformed. She was, as far as I could tell, completely blind from cataracts in both eyes, and there was an alarming click noise every time she exhaled. I hurried to administer all the first-aid care I could think of, and then turned to AA to admit what I’d done. I thought for sure I’d shed more tears than were possible while writing the post, but far more came while I read the heartfelt responses. Through bleary eyes, I looked at Patch. She was eating the millet and pellets that I’d positioned right beneath her beak. It was clearly a struggle, but she was doing it. That little bundle of feathers wanted to live, and she had plenty of people rooting for her. There was no more room for questioning: I had to do everything in my power to make sure she had the best chance possible given the situation.
After a few emails, it was arranged for her to see an avian vet. The lady who gave Patch to me took full responsibility of the transportation and fees, apologizing more than once for neglecting to notice Patch’s plight. She was willing to help rectify the ill, and I chose not to hold it against her. For ten days after the visit, I gave her a dose of Baytril and some hand-feeding formula twice a day.
Now, three weeks after I first brought her home, Patch is a completely different bird. She’s alive. I’ve never seen a bird turn away so quickly after getting so close to the rainbow bridge. She’s no longer in a hospital cage, and every day I’m amazed by how much energy she has.
Despite the fact that both her feet are deformed, she runs around with the cutest little penguin hop. I believe she can see a little through her right eye because of how she tilts and turns her head when she’s out playing and exploring. She loves to cuddle, loves to get scritches, and has plenty of the famous lovebird attitude. As far as she’s concerned, there is nothing different about her.
When I brought her home, I had my expectations low. But I should never have doubted her. She has taught me so much of strength and tenacity as she’s wriggled her way into my heart and made herself comfortable there.
Thank you, Patch. Here’s to many more wonderful memories and lessons to come.

I moved the sack of fresh shavings, and she feebly staggered out of my way. Without hesitating, I scooped her up in my hand and held her close to my chest. She didn’t weigh anything, she could hardly lift her head, and she was so very cold. She didn’t put up any struggle. She just closed her eyes and fell asleep in my hand.
Emotions in a mess, I went back to cleaning the flight with only one hand, my other cradling the tiny wisp of life I’d found.
I finished up and moved on to the cockatiel flight, bringing the lovebird with me. The lady owning the place entered to see the progress and noticed Patch. “She didn’t look well.” I understated.
The lady frowned and sighed, “She’s just old. The other birds fly down and feed her, so she gets along.”
My head screamed at my heart: Put her down. You are not in any position to be able to help right now! But I knew beyond any doubt that if I left her there, she would not survive. She’d probably be gone come morning. I figured she would be regardless, but was determined to get her somewhere warm where she could at least spend her last hours in comfort. “Can I take her home?” I asked.
Hours later, I dashed about preparing the hospital cage at QT area back at my own home. Within a few minutes, Patch was settled in the glass tank, towels rolled and piled around her, a tiny purple bunny plush for her to snuggle up against. I couldn’t help but berate myself. I was supposed to think of my flock first, and as far as I could see this was not beneficial to them. Something inside me kept repeating, “There’s no hope. There’s no hope.” Patch was too thin, her keel sticking out like a knife with sides more sunken than I’d ever seen. One toe on her right foot looked terribly infected and both her feet were deformed. She was, as far as I could tell, completely blind from cataracts in both eyes, and there was an alarming click noise every time she exhaled. I hurried to administer all the first-aid care I could think of, and then turned to AA to admit what I’d done. I thought for sure I’d shed more tears than were possible while writing the post, but far more came while I read the heartfelt responses. Through bleary eyes, I looked at Patch. She was eating the millet and pellets that I’d positioned right beneath her beak. It was clearly a struggle, but she was doing it. That little bundle of feathers wanted to live, and she had plenty of people rooting for her. There was no more room for questioning: I had to do everything in my power to make sure she had the best chance possible given the situation.
After a few emails, it was arranged for her to see an avian vet. The lady who gave Patch to me took full responsibility of the transportation and fees, apologizing more than once for neglecting to notice Patch’s plight. She was willing to help rectify the ill, and I chose not to hold it against her. For ten days after the visit, I gave her a dose of Baytril and some hand-feeding formula twice a day.
Now, three weeks after I first brought her home, Patch is a completely different bird. She’s alive. I’ve never seen a bird turn away so quickly after getting so close to the rainbow bridge. She’s no longer in a hospital cage, and every day I’m amazed by how much energy she has.
Despite the fact that both her feet are deformed, she runs around with the cutest little penguin hop. I believe she can see a little through her right eye because of how she tilts and turns her head when she’s out playing and exploring. She loves to cuddle, loves to get scritches, and has plenty of the famous lovebird attitude. As far as she’s concerned, there is nothing different about her.
When I brought her home, I had my expectations low. But I should never have doubted her. She has taught me so much of strength and tenacity as she’s wriggled her way into my heart and made herself comfortable there.
Thank you, Patch. Here’s to many more wonderful memories and lessons to come.
