By Kelly Luker
You will be greeted by screeches, catcalls and whistles. Insinuating little kissy sounds. A raspy, "Hey, baby--baby, baby."
No, this is not some medieval construction site you have trespassed onto, but rather Parrotroopers, a little store in Cupertino Village dedicated to the joys of the psittacine family of birds, or, as owner Renee Martin says, "everything from parakeets to macaws."
Martin doesn't say this so much as shout this, actually, trying to be heard over the deafening racket emanating from the 30-some brilliantly hued jungle birds that presently call Parrotroopers home. "Hey, they were built to be heard across the jungle," she shrugs good-naturedly.
Martin says she has always loved birds, but because she was raised by a "bird-phobic" mother--"She was terrified of feathers," Martin explains--didn't get her first parrot, a blue-fronted Amazon named Travis, until she had moved out of the house and in with Keith Martin, her husband and store partner.
Travis led to Chelsea and Java and Willow, and before too long "the inn was full," as Martin succinctly puts it. So two and a half years ago, Parrotroopers was born.
Visitors must first disinfect their hands before unlatching a chain and entering the bird room itself, which is lined with huge cages. Several tree limbs and branches appear to grow out of the center of the room, with macaws, cockatiels and conures perched on top, muttering, singing, laughing and clocking the action.
As we tour the room, Martin explains that virtually all of her birds for sale have been hand-fed since babies, a must for future cuddly pets. She also covers the financial basics of her fine feathered friends. The lesser-priced lorikeets will set a customer back about $500, but figure on closer to $1,000 on up for your basic cockatiel, conure or macaw. The wrought-iron cages run another $500; then index in about $200 a year for regular veterinary care and checkups. These tropical birds are not only a hefty investment money-wise, but also, as Martin adds, a sizable investment in time, care and attention.
Bear-Bear, a bare-eyed cockatiel, quickly reaches out a talon and beseeches Martin to pick her up. Martin obliges, and as she scratches the bird's head Bear-Bear melts into Martin's neck, her huge black eyes fluttering in ecstasy. She then leaps to her visitor's shoulder and wrestles with a ball-point pen that is trying to scribble across the pad.
Within minutes, she has left a little present on the shoulder beneath her, prompting Martin to quickly proffer a paper towel and the information that, of course, these birds are easily potty trained. Usually. Bear-Bear was put in the Martin's temporary care after an almost fatal encounter with a raccoon, but now appears to be on her way to becoming a permanent fixture at Parrotroopers.
Bear-Bear is not alone in finding a safe and happy home in Cupertino Village. Parrotroopers has become a quasi-sanctuary for jungle birds that, through ignorance or cruelty from their keepers, have suffered abuse and neglect. Renee remembers Keith commenting after Travis' acquisition, "So, what exactly do you do with a bird?" He reflected the lack of education and misunderstanding that surrounds these surprisingly intelligent creatures.
"People buy them and expect them to be ornaments in a cage," Martin says. But they have the intelligence--and manipulativeness--of a 2- to 4-year-old toddler. And unlike children, parrots never, ever grow out of the "terrible twos," not a good thing for a creature known to live 50 to 100 years. Without proper attention and training, they get ... strange. "You have your screamers, your pluckers, your shredders."
Martin gestures to the south wall of cages, each inhabited by brightly crested birds that have developed the fowl counterpart of nervous tics and twitches. One of Martin's charges had been kept in a cage eight years--never let out, never touched and never held. Another, Chico, a large green Amazon parrot, had been kicked down the stairs while in his cage. Chico waddles happily over to Martin and leaps to her hands. After softly nibbling on her cheek, he leans his head against her chest while contentedly cooing. "He thinks I'm his mate," Martin explains rather shyly.
After Chico is finally urged back to his perch, Martin gathers up an umbrella cockatiel named Chelsea, who, with her unfortunate habit of feather shredding, resembles a very white, round-eyed feather duster. Chelsea lives for attention, and immediately begins rocking and bobbing, hanging upside down and waving her talons in the air. The harder her visitor laughs, the more wound up Chelsea becomes, spinning delightedly between Martin's careful hands. Martin does not know the story behind Chelsea's habit, but, as with any of her oddly-behaved charges, she has painstakingly ruled out any sort of medical or nutritional cause.
Then there's Ziggy, a 25-year-old cockatiel whose owner could no longer care for him. Placed for safekeeping at Parrotroopers, Martin says that birds like Ziggy will never be sold, only placed in a carefully screened home.
The inn is getting too full again for these needy birds, so Martin has had to declare a moratorium on taking in any more. Instead she's working with an avian veterinarian and other bird lovers to create a parrot rescue service called For the Birds II. Working closely with a nonprofit tropical rain forest organization, For the Birds II will help find safe homes for these human-like animals.
For her part, Martin hopes that her store can be a bridge between parrots and their potential human companions. "We wanted to save people from what we had to go through," Martin says. "We had to dig and dig for help. We want to be the place where people can come for information."
This article appeared in the Sunnyvale Sun, January 10, 1996
©1996 Metro Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved.