My little green treasure

Someone pointed out a small green dot with a sharp beak jutting out. Its "owner" detested it — I think the feeling was mutual, since every time it saw her it screamed at full volume.

My sister, with mischievous, conspiring looks, convinced Dad to give it to her; the little monkey never got refused anything.

A few days later the little parrot was home: his name was Juanito. They brought him in a large cage — too large for the tiny thing — ; my sister was jumping with joy, Mom was frowning, Dad was smiling watching his little monkey happy.

I stood apart, watching the scene; it seemed to me like unnecessary torture for everyone involved. The little bird was curled in on himself, one small eye visible — an eye that seemed to me to be looking straight into the soul.

They put him in the patio; it was wide and bright, with a covered section for shelter from the rain. Dad found a dry branch, they built him a perch, prepared everything, but Juanito didn't move, wouldn't pull his head out from between his wings.

I feared the worst; I said nothing, and I focused on watching. They set up his space with plants, a water bowl, birdseed, fruit, newspaper to keep things from getting messy. The idea was to leave the cage open — my sister's notion — : she had her little green jewel and was eager to play with it. Big mistake: she put her hand in and her screams were heard all through the house; Dad pried him off her fingers, she cried all afternoon and stuck her tongue out at him every time she saw him.

It made me laugh; the poor animal had given her a real shock and Dad got scolded with the verdict that something like that could never happen again or he would have to go. What a pity: for once, someone was not a subject of whims.

The cage stayed open all the same. Mom said that if he left he was ungrateful and no one would miss him — he was rude.

It took Juanito a few days to leave his prison; I remember he did it one afternoon. I was doing homework when I saw him move: he came out cautiously, thirsty, hungry; exploring everything with a wary eye.

I found it curious how he shook his body as if he were a little ball — his wings were invisible against him. He spent several days like that, quiet; he came out in the silence of the afternoon, ate, drank, and went back to the corner of the cage.

It became routine: my sister had stopped paying him any attention, and he grew more confident day by day. One Sunday of bright sun I heard him for the first time: he was whistling. Maybe someone had taught him a tune; his song was beautiful and filled the house with happiness; still, he would go frantic the moment anyone invaded his space.

He barely tolerated having his water, food, and newspaper changed; every time my sister came near he launched into a flurry of pecks — same with Mom, who on many occasions would shout at him to get out of the house.

Their argument amused me; over time Juanito would answer back, laugh at her, and throw in the odd sharp word.

I then set myself the task of earning his trust. I still don't understand what led me to do it.

First step: do homework near his space. I put out a table, a chair, school supplies, and a radio; he liked music. With patience I got him to play with crayons and small scraps of paper; that was when I noticed his wings were clipped and injured. He used the paper scraps as feathers and hopped around the table whistling.

It was around that time that I started paying him compliments and blowing him kisses from a distance, since I was afraid of ending up attacked. Little by little our shared spaces grew longer and the distance between us grew short.

Every time I came home from school I stopped to greet him and brought him a biscuit; at first I just left it in his food bowl and then gave it to him in his little claw. I whistled and he whistled back; I told him how beautiful he was and he hopped on his feet. I discovered he loved the rain, so we never missed a chance when it rained to cool off in the breeze: he spread his wings in delight. They were happy moments for both of us.

I started secondary school and, with it, the troubles of adolescence arrived: cruel wounds opened in my heart. They mocked me at school for being "skinny", "a know-it-all", for not fitting in. I came home sad and worn down, but Juanito always waited for me to brighten my day and lighten the load.

One afternoon, leaving class, some girls were waiting for me; they hadn't liked a comment I made in class about ethics and freedom. They threatened me and slapped me. On the way home I didn't stop by to see my friend; I stayed in my room crying, afraid to tell my parents, and he — my Juanito — flew.

After all that time he flew: he came into my room, perched on my head, preened my hair, and stayed with me.

I remember — with tears in my eyes — that afternoon: how a small parrot did so much for me in that moment. The wounds on his wings were in the past and I could touch him; his heart was healing and he was healing mine.

My little one opened up to all the members of the family: he no longer attacked, he sang, he filled the house with his light and splendid energy. He wandered everywhere; he was free to come and go as he pleased, but he never strayed from his home.

Several times I took him out to open fields with the idea that he might go with his own kind; he joined them, took a majestic flight, brilliant emerald plumage flashing from branch to branch. But a pass across the blue sky was always enough before he returned to shelter in my loose hair.

When Juanito came into our lives, he had already passed through many hands that had hurt him and left him with a bitter temperament. With love, patience, and calm he changed.

I don't know how many years he lived or what they were like, but I am certain that his last ones were happy. We moved, going from a traditional house to an apartment; it was small, with green areas in the common spaces, where tall palms decorated the grounds.

A flock of little parrots of his species nested in them. Even though it made my heart ache, I knew that was where his wellbeing lay. The little parrots started coming to his habitat: he flew off with them; it was clear that at any moment he might not come back.

That is what happened: for several weeks the space of his joy stood empty. Then one afternoon I saw him arrive with a little female parrot; I understood completely. Every so often he came and went, preened my hair, sang, ate, bathed.

My little green treasure taught me the meaning of love.

When he left for good, he left a space that was never filled; he was a friend, a confidant, a bandage for my soul.

Analysis and reflections from Fundación Loros

Juanito's story captures the journey many captive birds make: from fear and a cage to free flight, carried there by a girl's patience. Each stage holds a lesson.

Juanito arrived as a frightened green dot and, with time and tenderness, became a source of comfort for someone who also needed wings. The girl gave him music, rain, and patience; he answered with gentle preening and song during the hardest moments of adolescence.

In the end, the greatest act of love was opening the window — letting the healed parrot choose the palm tree and his flock. The story is a reminder that caring for a wild bird is not about owning it, but walking alongside it until it can fly on its own. To love is to let go… and to celebrate the sky you briefly shared.