For as long as I can remember, birds have been an essential part of my life. My mother (RIP) cared for blackbirds, tanagers, and parrots, and I inherited from her a deep love for these noble and wise creatures. That’s why, when Carlitos arrived at my home, I felt he was a living bond connecting me not only to nature but also to my family’s story.
Carlitos came into my life as a special gift, one year after I lost Rebecca, another bird who had filled my days with joy. He had been rescued by my brother-in-law’s mother, a kind-hearted woman who found him crossing a highway in Bucaramanga. She cared for him for two decades, but with age, she could no longer keep up. Knowing how much I love birds and nature, she entrusted him to me. Her children were stunned—after so many years, their mother had decided to give Carlitos away.
At first, Carlitos was wary. He had spent most of his life with the woman who rescued him, and he looked at me with suspicion—hesitant to give me his foot, unsure about being near me, reluctant to “talk.” But within a week, something shifted. I talked to him, showed him with gestures that I was there to care and love him, and eventually, he opened his little heart. The connection between us grew fast and deep. I became his inseparable companion: every time I returned from work, his excitement reminded me of the beauty in life’s simplest things. He’d fuss, scream with joy, and stretch out his little foot to greet me. Those post-work moments were the highlight of my day.
Carlitos was with me through adulthood, both in everyday life and during major life events. He loved bathing in the rain on the terrace among my plants, as if each drop purified him. We traveled together on short trips, he got along with my other birds (some fishers), played with my family, and every December we shared tamales and hot chocolate. Mischievous and sweet, he loved trying to steal pieces of tamal or grab chocolate bread—though he knew he shouldn’t. He was a red-lored parrot (Amazona autumnalis) with astonishing intelligence: he’d get jealous when my boyfriend hugged me, and once, he even pecked him—haha. His strong personality taught me the true meaning of companionship. With him, I learned that happiness lies in the simple things: a roof over your head, a shared meal, and genuine affection.
One of the most difficult and touching moments with Carlitos came in his old age, when I had to leave town for a few days. He stayed with his former caretaker, and when I returned, something was clearly wrong: he flapped his wings forcefully, clung to his perch, and eventually began showing signs of paralysis on one side of his body. With a heavy heart, I called the vet and followed all instructions closely—feeding him by hand, keeping him in a safe space, whispering words of comfort. Slowly, day by day, he began to regain movement. It was terrifying, but it deepened our bond. I realized then that his body was aging and that, although parrots can live long lives, our time together wasn’t infinite.
Two years later, during another trip, his former caretaker called to tell me he had passed away. Carlitos died peacefully, after eating some fruit that very morning. I wasn’t there at the moment, but I said goodbye with all the love in the world, knowing we had shared so much that words could never fully capture. Of course, I cried a lot. I remember him every May 8th—soon it’ll be two years without him—but watching his videos and hearing his voice brings me joy. His song touches my soul, and I know Carlitos is now in a better place, flying free among trees and other parrots, just as he deserved.
I always knew his true nature was to fly and be with his own kind. I never caged him or clipped his wings. Carlitos had free space in my home and lived in harmony, although I was fully aware that, because of his age and years in captivity, a full return to the wild wasn’t likely. Still, I cared for him with respect and the firm belief that he deserved more than just my company—he deserved to feel the sky in his feathers and the wind on his beak.
During the pandemic, Carlitos was my constant companion, and his presence made all the difference. He taught me to see life differently: every time I came home from work, just seeing me filled him with joy. It was like daily therapy. He helped me reprioritize, appreciate time at home, and deepen my connections with loved ones. With him, I learned that love doesn’t need words—just presence and care.
Imagining Carlitos flying free means everything to me. Though he’s no longer physically here, knowing that his spirit soars high, free, among trees and fellow parrots fills my heart. It makes me happy to think his essence outgrew the walls of my home and that his story might inspire others not to keep birds in captivity. Today, I understand even more the importance of fighting for the freedom of those who, like Carlitos, deserve to fly in the wild.
That’s why I admire Fundación Loros so deeply. I dream of meeting them, learning from them, and maybe helping others understand that having a parrot at home isn’t a privilege—it’s a responsibility we must transform. The movie Rio marked me profoundly: I saw myself in Linda, Blu’s caretaker, and understood that loving a parrot also means learning to let go.
Writing this story is, for me, a tribute to Carlitos, to my mom (who, coincidentally, would have turned 77 yesterday, April 20—seeing her in videos always surrounded by birds was almost a ritual), and to all parrots who deserve to return to their skies. Carlitos, my companion for almost fifteen years, was never just a “pet”; he was my teacher of freedom, my unconditional friend. Now his memory flies free in my heart, and every time I picture him taking flight, I feel that our bond transcends time and space.