Hope is not a plan.

Follow your bliss.

Nothing is written.

It should suck.

Herman was a troubled boy.

He was inked. He had a tattoo from going through government quarantine, which meant he was wild caught and shipped to the States sometime in the '70s if not before.

He was part of a large group of birds seized from an animal hoarder. I met him when the rescue group I volunteered at was asked to provide care for the birds while the courts decided their fates.

Herman hated people, he liked birds. If you weren't a bird he would huff at you and posture threateningly, but he never attacked. That would have involved having to actually touch someone who wasn't a bird.

One day someone left his cage door open and he and his best friend got out. I could easily pick up his friend to put her back, but not Herman. So, in desperation I asked him to go back into his cage and to my surprise, he did. After that I was able to let him out to play on top of his cage with his friend and he would go back in when I asked.

Herman's best friend decided I should adopt her. Herman was classified as unsuitable to be a pet and was going to be sent off to some place that warehouses unwanted birds. Since Herman would follow my verbal commands, I volunteered to take him so he wouldn't have to be separated from his best friend. They even waived the adoption fee for him.

The only time Herman ever bit me was when I tried to towel him to put him in the pet carrier to take him home. I was resolute to show him that I would not be intimidated by his bite so with his beak sunk into my arm straight to the bone, I calmly carried him to the carrier and pried him off, dripping blood the whole way.

The vet said he had signs of long term malnutrition. Of all the birds I've known, he was the only one who didn't waste food. He would eat whatever I offered without hesitation which is something else rare for a parrot.

In the years Herman lived with me he never let me touch him. But we did form a relationship of sorts. He would sing with me and take treats from my hand. When I sat on the floor to read him stories he would come down to the bottom of his cage beside me and look at the pictures. And he would go in and out of his cage and fly to the play tree when I asked him to. He seemed happy, chewing wood chunks like a chipper-shredder, demolishing toys, singing, dancing and flapping.

His kidneys gave out, old age. I finally got to hold him as he died. I miss him.