Silent Partner

Humans have always loved to look at beautiful things, even to the point of destroying them.

Do you want to go to the museum or the zoo today, a mother asks her child, as if these are synonymous. But animals are not art; not meant to live in a cage while people pay admission to gawk at them in some artificial habitat.

You can abduct every species and keep us captive for your own recreation, but you so easily forget that when humans do this to one another they call it trafficking. What makes us so different?

I’ve been here at the estate for 25 years, and I can tell you they have been bringing young women and immigrants in and out of here even longer. As a silent companion to a man the same age as me, it’s not within my power to tell him much. He didn’t opt for a parrot who might give the illusion of conversation; I know some words, but I am mostly a silent partner. Can a bird be complicit?

I don’t know. I don’t remember being anyone else, but I have often wondered if my feathered friends see the world the way I do, or if I'm different. Maybe I haven't always been a bird. Was I reincarnated? Who can tell. But in case this is my only life, I'll try to live it to the fullest, even if I am trapped here forever.

I’m not the only one here who is trapped.

There are tigers outside; one lion, an alpaca, and maybe some others. But the most valuable asset are the women, who often leave after a few days.

They smile when they see me on his desk, walking past their conversation. They’re trying to find another way to be useful than what he has in mine for them, but he has only kept three women in 25 years.

Rocio, who has cleaned the estate for a decade is quiet and unassuming. She makes room and board and not much more. Her ability to speak English seems about on par with my own, and if she is actively trying to leave, it’s not apparent.

Arwen is older now; she assists him, acting as a sort of personal secretary. If his work bothers her, she doesn’t show it. I suppose she has less of an excuse for staying, but at this point, where would she go? Besides, if he were ever caught, she would likely be considered an accomplice.

Ellie-May was too sweet to stay. No one believed the story he told us about heading back to her family in Iowa. If nothing else, I know she would have said goodbye to me first. But it's easier not to think about where she ended up, same as it is with all of the other women to pass through here.

They seem relieved at first to arrive here. They've been taken from their lives, but once they see all the majestic animals onsite...The smoke and mirrors... They somehow think they'll be all right. The estate does not seem like a place where bad things happen.

And he's nice to them; He's always nice. But there are so many other people he can pay to play bad-cop, so why would he take on that role?

He has a way about him; Stanford Cawley III. I know, ironic for a man with the last name Cawley to find such appreciate for a macaw. But with his days of schoolyard bullying far behind him, he took me in happily when we were both 24, and now we're both about to hit 50. He likes to make a big show of it on his birthday, calling us twins and turning to me to suggest that I blow out the candles on the cake. I've never done it. Besides, my birthay is five days earlier, as if he cared.

But I suppose if he has an affinity for anyone or anything, it's me. If I'm being honest, I lost my affinity for him early, but I can't help but think back to the moment we met. He was the consummate tourist- wearing a "You Better BELIZE It" T-Shirt over his board shorts.

My first owner, more accurately, the man who'd taken me from my family along with his other pets, had almost laughed Stanford out of his humane zoo, as he called it. I only speak to a certain level of buyer, he explained.

Stanford handled himself with such grace- said he respected a man who wanted a good home for his special treasures. He said he was in the same business- of finding the right home for beautiful things.

And then, with one transaction, I belonged to him, and we were off.

His home in Florida isn't exactly tropical, compared to my original home, but money can do a lot of things. I get along alright with my synthetic environment, fancy lights to control the temperature and humidity. And mostly, I'm by Stanford's side.

"Don't repeat any of this, buddy," his clients love to say, poking at me arrogantly with their greasy fingers. I'd like to say this story ends with me saving the day by mimicking exactly the right words and making my way into the local police station, but nothing like that ever happened.

And now, the girls come in larger groups. They whisper to one another. "Play along," some of them say. "Don't go to sleep-- we'll fight them at their weak moment."

The staff have dealt with every possible incident, keeping a strong track record of suvival, rarely ever damaging what they call, the merchandise. They speak only in business terms; when is this order coming, or when does this shipment go out.

And they truly mean shipment; The last set of women came in a storage pod. They must have been in there for days. They sport bruises in hidden spots, back of the neck, hips...places that can be hidden in a dress.

Stanford gives them this look of regret, as if he wishes he could keep them. He learns their names and tucks their hair behind their ears. What a beautiful girl, Esperanza. You have beautiful eyes, Carlie.

He brings me out on his shoulder and I talk to the girls. But they don't understand what I'm saying.

Because of their close quarters and the greed of "upping production" as Stanford mentioned on the phone to his associate, more of the girls have started to fall ill during their stay. But there's no doctor visit. There's a 12-hour grace period for their fever to break, and the man who takes them when they fail to make an immediate recovery does not seem to be the town doctor.

As for myself, I'm afforded more medical consideration. No veterinary office visits, as I'm not exactly here legally. But we did have an older male doctor who used to visit on occasion.

"What do you mean he retired?" Stanford said, slamming his fist on the table. I guess he really liked that doctor. Or maybe it was difficult to find several veterinary specialists to tend to every breed of trafficked animal living on the estate.

But no one was walking away with me after a 12-hour grace period, and after a few days of exhibiting discomfort, Stanford called in a young female doctor.

I mistook her for a moment; she could have been one of the girls and bore a strong resemblance to Ellie-May.

"Hello. I'm Diane," she said, reaching out to shake my claw. It was more dignity than I'd remembered being afforded. "What's your name, buddy?"

Stanford chuckled. "A name? What for, really? Do you name your furniture?"

She looked at me hard. I like to think she was about to suggest a name to Stanford, albeit 25 years after my first day on the estate. Instead, she opened her mouth to share some bad news.

"I don't want to jump to conclusions, but I'm seeing signs of proventricular dilatation syndrome," Diane said to Stanford.

"Well, I expected as much," He said arrogantly. "I've read many books about the care of the Scarlet Macaw and we've been together for nearly 25 years."

"That's a long time for a bird to survive in capacity," Diane said, nearly making Stanford spit out his whiskey.

"Captivity?" he said, seemingly shocked at her choice of words.

"Well," she said, changing the subject. "I'm sure you've taken very good care of him is what I'm saying. Just you living here?"

"And my staff," Stanford said.

Diane nodded. "I have some pills here for him to take daily and I can come back early next week to check in."

One of the bigger guards escorted Diane off the premises, failing to notice her interest in the shipping container. It was already empty, he thought, so no need to hide it. But it did have a small composting toilet inside, and a single high-heel sitting just outside.

Diane kept her mouth shut until the guard locked her onto the other side of the gate.

"Thanks," she said, getting into her jeep.

Honestly, I didn't think we'd see her again. It was obvious I was dying from my fatal bird disease, and any grown woman with half an instinct for survival would know it was better not to return to the estate, no matter what she was getting paid to deal with an illegal exotic-pet owner.

But Diane is not a vet at all. I know; I was surprised as well. And bonus, I wasn't dying. She had just come prepared with a generic prescription for a sugar pill and the first name that came up in a google search for diseases that could afflict an old macaw.

Thankfully, she is a bird fan. Her house is even less tropical than the estate, but when they took Stanford away in cuffs the next day, she offered to take me in for the weekend until I could be sent to a sanctuary in Belize.

Diane sat down beside me this morning to tell me how beautiful it is. I appreciate her faith that I understand her words; that she doesn't talk to me like battery-operated childrens toy. She even pulled up photos on her cell phone of the sanctuary.

I don't know if my brothers and sisters will be there, but I've been in worse environments. I will be grateful no matter what. Even the captivity I experienced is not as bad as it can get for someone.

As I get into the cage for the plane ride over, I know it will be my last. My feathers feel like a tool for flight again instead of a shield. Home, here I come.