The story
Imagine walking through a snow-covered forest in the Ohio River valley two hundred years ago. You look up into the hollow of an old sycamore tree, and instead of a grey owl or a brown squirrel, you see a flash of tropical emerald green and sunny yellow. It feels like a dream, but for a long time, this was simply home.
America once had its own native parrot, the Carolina parakeet. They were beautiful birds, about the size of a sun conure, with long green tails and heads the color of a ripe orange. They did not just stay in the warm swamps of Florida. These hardy parrots traveled in massive, noisy flocks as far north as the Great Lakes and as far west as the Colorado Rockies. They were a part of the American landscape, as much as the bison or the white-tailed deer.
As a parrot lover, you know how social and fiercely loyal these birds can be. But for the Carolina parakeet, that loyalty was their undoing. They loved the fruit in the settlers' orchards, and because they were seen as pests or hunted for their bright feathers, people began to shoot them in great numbers. When a member of the flock was hit and fell to the ground, the others would not fly away to safety. Instead, documented accounts tell us that the survivors would sweep down and hover over their fallen friend, crying out in distress. This instinct to stay together made it tragically easy for hunters to take the entire flock at once.
By the early twentieth century, the great green clouds of birds had vanished from the wild. The very last known Carolina parakeet was a male named Incas. He lived at the Cincinnati Zoo in a pagoda-style birdhouse. In a quiet twist of history, Incas lived in the exact same cage where Martha, the world’s last passenger pigeon, had died four years earlier. When Incas passed away in February of 1918, a whole branch of the avian family tree went silent. The species was officially declared extinct in 1939.
It is a heavy story, but it reminds us how precious the bond is between us and the parrots currently perched in our living rooms. These birds are clever, emotional, and deeply connected to their flock, whether that flock is made of other birds or of people like you.
Today, as you spend time with your bird, take a moment to really look at their feathers and notice the way the light catches the different shades of color. Then, try a small experiment. Softly whistle a new, three-note melody to them and see if they tilt their head to listen. That spark of curiosity you see in their eyes is the same spark that once lit up the sycamore trees of the American wilderness.