Our story began on a weekend, when I was 9 years old, in the city of Tunja. I remember my mom and I got up early to make a Christmas wreath, a school assignment. I was in fifth grade. We began to notice that, shortly after five in the morning, we could hear the crying of a child coming from the back of our residential complex. There were many trees, and we couldn’t see anything. The crying went on for so long that we began to worry.
As the day began to lighten, we saw green leaves with colorful spots moving at the top of one of the trees. With some binoculars, we discovered that the “child” who was crying and calling out desperately for his mother was a little parrot. We waited to see if his owner would show up, but no one came for him. At that time, on the first floor of the building where we lived, there were some kids around my age, but they were cruel to animals, and we feared that if the parrot wasn’t caught, they might hurt him.
So my dad decided to catch him with a sack to keep him safe. It wasn’t easy—we spent several hours trying to catch him. He bit and scratched my brother and my dad several times. Eventually, they managed to capture him, and we set up a cage we had at home so he could stay there. He was very nervous and somewhat aggressive, didn’t want to eat or drink water, so we decided to cover the cage with a blanket, hoping it would calm him. Luckily, it worked for the first few days.
I remember spending hours next to his cage, admiring the colors of his feathers: his yellow crest, pink shoulders, and the tip of his tail and wings full of colors. He looked like a rainbow. Over time, and after many bites, we gained his trust, until he would only let me pet him.
No one came looking for him in the following days, so we adopted him, so to speak. Years went by and we became best friends. We went to the park, I let him loose in the house, I dressed him up with my dolls’ clothes and he let me. Now I think he was very patient for not attacking me. I was always an introverted child and had trouble making friends, so he was my companion. He would sit with me to watch TV, do homework, and decide whether to stay with me or go into his cage. I also started taking him to the trees to sunbathe, and he would come back on his own when it was time.
He truly was a great companion. He defended me from my mom’s scoldings and my brother’s pranks. Everyone in the neighborhood knew him and greeted him.
When I turned 13, I got very sick with severe pneumonia and was hospitalized for a long time. I missed him so much. But when I came back home, my parents, following the recommendation of the pulmonologist who treated me, decided to take him to a nearby refuge or sanctuary, where there were more parrots. The doctor explained that the dust he released when shaking his wings could worsen my condition.
I cried a lot and hated them for making that decision. I didn’t speak to them for a while, because I felt like they were taking away my best friend. He didn’t understand why we were leaving him in that place. It still hurts to think about what he must have felt… he probably thought we had abandoned him. But it was the best for him. That sanctuary had other parrots of his species and others too, so he wouldn’t be alone.
We went every weekend without fail to visit him and bring him his favorite cookies—he loved Mu de leche and ate them happily—but it was clear the separation had affected him. He no longer let himself be cuddled the same way. Over time, the sanctuary staff earned his trust. However, one day we were told he had “escaped.” We assume that the employee he trusted the most took him out to keep him.
It was very hard for me. I still think about him and cry, because I would’ve liked to say goodbye. Many people think animals don’t feel, but they suffer from separation just like we do.
When I graduated from high school, I decided to study veterinary medicine. I always loved animals and had many pets—I was known as “the pet girl” where I lived—but I chose the career mainly because of him, because of the impact he had on me as a child. He was one of the pets I loved the most and who marked my life deeply.
I decided to do my thesis on psittacines, at the Corpoboyacá rescue center, to help captive parrots manage and regulate stress, and prevent it from affecting their time in rehabilitation centers. It was a sad and happy experience at the same time, because I never stopped thinking about him. Sometimes I would call his name, hoping he would show up among the rescued ones, but he never did.
Thanks to him, I am the person and professional I am today. His name was Paco, and I was his Lalita. He will always be in my heart.