Chochi: parrots are not gifts or pets

Chochi was my first pet. She came into my life when I was 6 and stayed with me for 8 years. When she arrived at my house — a gift from my uncle to my mom — she was aggressive: she couldn't fly, her wings had been clipped, and so had the little toes on her feet; she had no grip. My uncle had originally given her to his mother-in-law, but when he saw she was mistreating Chochi and didn't like her singing, he took her back and gave her to my mom. Chochi was fed nothing but agua de panela with bread, every single day. I was very young, but I was determined to earn her love. She was distrustful, fearful, bit quite hard — yet somehow felt safe around my dad. My dad isn't much of an animal person, so he didn't pay her much attention; my mom, without knowing any better, fed her very poorly. We bought her a large cage, but it was never enough.

As time passed — about three years later — she began to trust me and we grew very attached to each other. I was 9 by then; mom had my first brother, and for some strange reason she grew very irritated with both me and Chochi. Chochi was my emotional support as a child, so I took over her care. I'll say it again: one thing that breaks my heart is not having fed her properly — fruit, seeds, the right things — but I did the best I could with what little I had. That's how time went by: I taught her to sing melodies I made up, and she learned to laugh. In the middle of so much hardship — financial and emotional — we had each other, and that was enough.

Not knowing how to care for a bird leads you to make reckless choices, like traveling with her on an intercity bus. Once she nearly suffocated in a tunnel; at the farm, a cat almost killed her. In fact, sensing freedom — even with her little wings clipped — she escaped, though we found her. I feel that a bird in captivity suffers greatly, and even more so in solitude. Chochi sometimes had episodes of stress when I was at school and would pull out her feathers, but it all stopped the moment she saw me.

She loved sleeping with me; she had her own little house because she slept outside the cage. But that wasn't good — she would come looking for me while I slept deeply. One night I forgot to turn off the TV and fell asleep; during the night she must have moved over to sleep with me, but without realizing it she got wrapped in my blankets and, heartbreakingly, died from lack of air. I woke up and tried mouth-to-mouth, but she didn't respond: it was already too late. I laid her in her little house and she looked like a sleeping angel. I told my mom she had woken up that way; she believed Chochi had simply died of a heart attack. I cried for a full month. I felt devastated: I had hurt the being I had loved most in the world, and that felt unforgivable.

After a long time I came to understand that I had been a child, and that it hadn't been my fault — that we were caught in the situations life brings, which are often sad and impossible to avoid.

What I know is that she made me a better person and laid the foundation for who I am now: someone who loves animals, and birds above all. Whenever I find a bird in trouble, I help it — I teach it to eat and to fly, but always so it can be free. Chochi taught me that birds belong to the sky and that we cannot be thieves of their freedom. Thank you for the space to share this.

Analysis and reflections from Fundación Loros

Chochi's story leaves us with lessons that matter:

Innocence and responsibility
A six-year-old girl, however loving, does not have the experience or resources to care for a bird that can live for decades. Her desire to earn Chochi's affection met the reality of an animal with wounds and special needs: proper nutrition, enough space, and constant supervision.

Silent suffering
In his cage, Chochi endured moments of loneliness and stress, shown through behaviors like biting the bars or pulling out his own feathers. His diet — panela water and bread — lacked the basic nutrients a parrot needs to stay healthy.

The risk of unintended closeness
The most heartbreaking part was the ending: seeking comfort, Chochi settled into the blankets while the girl slept soundly and became trapped, unable to breathe. This was not an isolated accident — it was the outcome of a bond that, though full of good intentions, lacked the preparation needed to protect the bird's life.

The wrong gift
Giving a child a parrot means handing them a very large responsibility. The initial excitement can turn to frustration, which often leads to inadequate care and a decline in the bird's wellbeing.

Parrots are not pets.

Beyond the emotion of this story, we learn that a parrot in captivity suffers both physically and emotionally. Its true home is the sky: it needs space to fly, to call, and to live in a natural environment that offers food, the company of its own species, and freedom.

Parrots are not gifts or birthday toys. If we want to build in children a love of nature and respect for animals, there are equally meaningful alternatives: educational kits, visits to sanctuaries, birdwatching programs. That way, we teach them to value wildlife without compromising the freedom and wellbeing of beings as extraordinary as Chochi.