To Pionus or not to Poinus

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Jon Bondy, jon@jonbondy.com

My foray into salt water aquaria, and reef tanks in particular, started with a somewhat modest 75 gallon tank. On a whim, I then purchased a 44 gallon corner tank. And, when the need arose, a 10 gallon hospital tank.

After about 9 months, the health of the main tank began to deteriorate, as I added too many small fish for the ecosystem to manage. A move to a larger tank seemed to be a possible cure, so I purchased a 180 gallon tank and moved all of my specimens from the 75 and 44 gallon tanks into the 180. The fish and corals thrived, and I ended up with only one problem: I had way too many fish tanks, and most of them were empty!

I placed ads to sell the 75 and 44 gallon tanks, but most people were not willing to pay what I considered to be reasonable prices for them. Weeks became months, and I asked friends to tell others about the tanks. Gerry, the man who runs the fish store I use, said that he would pass the word around.

One morning, I received a phone call. The woman on the phone asked "Is this Jon Bondy?" I said yes, and asked her how she had gotten my name. When she said Gerry, I immediately sensed that I might be able to sell one of the fish tanks. Not

wanting to be too pushy, I asked her why she had called. I figured I would let her bring the topic up herself.

She responded by saying "On the 28th of March, at 8:35 in the morning, my husband of ten years passed away suddenly, and without warning," I began to suspect that I would not be selling any fish tanks to her.

I then began to endure a long and somewhat painful conversation, punctuated every 5 minutes or so when she started on another crying jag which often seemed to spring out of thin air.

Her husband had been a one man dynamo, creating and marketing some computer hardware and software which had allowed the two to live a very luxurious life. While some of us might have spent the money on solid gold bidets, her love was pets, and she had acquired quite a few.

To be exact, at the time of his death, they owned about ten dogs; 15 cats; four horses; two flocks of 25 small birds each (in two separate aviaries); two Hyacinth Macaws (huge, colorful parrots); two mated and laying Pionus (smaller parrots); and miscellaneous ducks and geese which flocked around their pond (with gazebo).

His death being as sudden as it was, she was at a loss as to how to continue his business. And his absent minded failure to mail in a life insurance payment left her with little short term cash to pay for animal upkeep.

She had felt compelled to give away as many of the pets as she could, in order that they be fed. The cats were down to five, and were available for free; she also offered me one or two dogs for free. But the pressing issue was the horses. They needed food, and she had no money. Her only way to deal with this was to sell the Pionus.

And that was why she had called me.

Pionus are nice birds, slightly larger than a pigeon, colored a dark brownish purple. They are quiet and interact well with people, and sell for between $800 (wholesale) and $1400 (retail). The cage she had them in sold for about $1200. Thus, she was hoping to get at least $2400, and preferably about $3000, for the birds, their eggs, and the cage.

Gerry, knowing about Karma, my African Grey, had told her about me as a possible purchaser of the Pionus.

Now when you wake up in the morning and don't feel a powerful need for a mated pair of Pionus, that feeling tends to last throughout the day. At least that is the way I've experienced my Pional tendencies. So, as much as I sympathized with her situation, I was not immediately inclined to drag out my checkbook.

A dialog ensued in which she would ask me whether there was any way that I could find it in my heart to buy the Pionus, and I would try to be polite. After a while, tiring of the crying jags, and a bit curious to see the menagerie, I asked her if I could stop by and see the birds. She agreed, and I was to appear that night.

Those of you who know where I live probably consider me to live just past the edge of civilization. She lived 15 minutes further out. After driving on dirt roads for a while, I turned onto an unmaintained dirt road, and eventually found her home.

They had purchased an old farm, with a large home and an equally large barn. The pond, located quite close to the house, was not that large, and seemed artificial, but it was large enough to contain a small island. And that island was large enough to contain a gazebo which looked like an origami creation made out of plywood and large sheets of glass. It was a portend of things to come.

I entered the house, and was immediately struck by the dog kennel. An entire wall of the house, on the short side of the house, was full of perhaps a dozen dogs, all yelping and running about. The wall between the kennel and the remainder of the house was a floor to ceiling plastic partition. Inside the large kennel space one could also see two fairly large aviaries, now empty.

The kitchen was large enough to have an island in the center, despite the old, large gas fired stove. The dining room was huge, with a table large enough to seat perhaps 14 people. The table was made from a single piece of wood taken from a huge tree. At the head and foot of the table one found love seats, instead of chairs: the table was that wide. And the love seats were suspended from the ceiling, like swings. In a corner sat another huge gas stove which she said she was hoping to re-wire as a food warmer.

At this point, the cats began to appear. One light brown maine coon cat jumped up on the stove, and I began to pet her. I have a deep love of maine coon cats, and inquired as to whether I could have that cat, but I was advised that she was not as nice as she appeared, and that I really should not take her. I was introduced to cat after cat as we wandered around the large house.

The downstairs bathroom had only brass fixtures, including a brass sink basin and a brass tub. She was proud of the decor, which was decidedly unusual.

The living room was also huge, going straight across the house; it was, perhaps, 24 feet square. A gas fire burned in the fireplace at the end of the room, and the end of the house. The post and beam construction allowed for wonderfully large rooms with only a few posts to support the second floor. The ceiling of the living room did not cover the entire room, but rather left gaps on each side, perhaps so that heat could rise from the living room to the second floor above.

The game room, above the living room, was also quite large, and the ability to look over the edge at the living room below added a sense of drama.

Those of you who know me well might tactfully describe me as a pack rat, and might describe my decor as cluttered. You might not have been quite so tactful in this home. Books and papers were piled almost everywhere you looked, with boxes used to organize it from time to time. I began to feel as if my own décor was almost anal..

Upstairs we began to see evidence of the birds. In one 12 by 14 foot room were two large cages. A TV set and VCR sat between the cages to provide entertainment when people were not around. Attached to the ceiling, sloped to conform to the roofline, were a series of large ropes, perhaps 3 inches in diameter. They were tied to the ceiling and woven in a random pattern, as a kind of aerial three dimensional maze. Perched on the maze were the two Macaws.

My African Grey weights less than a pound, and is perhaps a foot from beak to tail tip. Her beak can draw blood instantly, although she rarely chooses to do this. Macaws are huge in contrast, with beaks easily 1.5 inches tall and deep. They can take a finger off without blinking, although as good pets, they rarely do so. Seeing these huge, colorful birds perched above me was dramatic and exciting. They gazed down at us, growling and muttering. When she approached them, they hurried down for attention. She scratched their heads, backs, and chests, as they raised their wings; she even allowed them to "kiss" her with open beaks, as I shuddered. The three of them obviously loved each other.

The next room contained a similar setup, only with smaller ropes, and in the cage sat the Pionus. Mating birds are rarely affectionate, since they have mates and offspring to protect, so I was not anticipating being able to touch them. She, too, was unable to touch them, but a neighbor boy who was visiting was able to pick the male up for me. The bird was pretty, and attentive, but obviously was more interested in his family than in me. I peered into the nesting box to see the eggs. The female squawked as she was pushed aside, and quickly sat back down on the eggs as soon as she was allowed.

The house tour finished with the upstairs bathroom (including shower and spa) and the master bedroom (huge, cluttered, and containing more than one exercise machine). We headed back to the Pionus room to cogitate.

The woman, the house, the animals: they all fascinated me. As we discussed the Pionus, cats came and went. One hopped up on my lap and simply went to sleep. He was quite slender: you could have counted his ribs if you had the inclination.

The hour grew late. I'm usually in bed by 10, and it was after 10, and here we were haggling over Pionus. At one point I was informed that she really liked me, and that she knew that I would own the Pionus. The only issue remaining was the price. I was not convinced of her ability to predict the future.

Now, as flattering as her statement was, it changed the tenor of the conversation from "I wonder if I will spend a lot of money for pets I don't need, don't have space for, and don't have time for" to "I wonder how much money I will spend for those Pionus". As nice as she was, I suddenly felt a bit pressured, even manipulated.

I began to consider how much I would be willing to pay for the Pionus, an act which I considered to be a kind of charity. Maybe $1000? OK, maybe $1200? In an attempt to terminate the conversation, I offered her $1200, by which I meant that I would get the whole kit and caboodle: both birds, the eggs, and the cage.

She mused about this, and eventually said that she really needed $1600. For just the birds. It was beginning to look as if the whole package was going to cost $2400. And two birds without a cage are not fun at all. She offered me the empty aviaries for free, but that would have required disassembly and reassembly; and they were constructed for smaller birds, and would likely just get chewed up in a few days.

As I debated the pro's and con's of Pionus, I tried to manage the sense of guilt I felt for offering her $1200. Here I was trying to get the best price I could from a grieving widow; I was trying to take advantage of her. On the other hand, I had woken up without needing Pionus, and I had a sneaking suspicion that I would go to sleep with the same feelings. Who was manipulating whom? She needed the money, I had the money, but I certainly did not need, and really did not want the Pionus. What to do?

I was tired. I knew that my resistance was dwindling with my rationality. Time was of the essence: if I didn't scram outta there soon, I might end up buying more Pionus than I needed. Meaning any Pionus at all.

I made excuses about the late hour, and asked if I could think about it. She was gracious, and we headed downstairs. The cat, Roo, who had been asleep on my lap, was carried along. He was curious about this, but nothing more. After I got in the car, she put him on the passenger seat, and we took off.

And that is how I acquired my current cat, Roo.