Time to Fly (9 page)

“That was the sheriff,” she tells me. “He called to say they found an abandoned trailer in a ditch—with dead parrots inside it.”

“How awful! What happened?”

“The police think the parrots were smuggled up from Mexico, and the driver was heading to New York to sell them—until he ran off the road. He was probably driving nonstop and hadn't slept for days. The trailer has been lying in the ditch for at least a week, but it's on a back road and nobody saw it until a farmer reported it.”

As the information sinks in, I look up at Gran in horror. “Smuggled! Are you kidding?”

“I wish I were, Zoe. I hate to say it, but parrot smuggling is big business. Since nearly all wild parrots are endangered, most countries have very strict rules about exporting and importing exotic birds. As a result, a large black market has developed in smuggled birds.”

“But Gran, there are parrot breeders right here in the U.S.! Why would anyone want to smuggle in birds illegally?”

“Money—what else. A smuggler can buy a wild bird from a poacher in Mexico for maybe ten dollars, and then sell it here for fifty times that amount. So it's a highly profitable trade.”

I shake my head, trying to make sense of this. “But if the parrots are so valuable, why would the trucker just abandon them?”

Gran shrugs. “He may not have had a choice. If the trailer came open in the crash, the birds may have just flown away on their own. Or maybe he knew he was going to go on the lam, so he took pity on the birds and let them loose.”

“A smuggler, taking pity on the birds?” I say skeptically.

“The truck driver was probably not the smuggler,” Gran explains. “Most likely he was just hired by the smuggling operation. If he had a wreck, he'd be in serious trouble—not only with the police, once they found what he was hauling, but also with whoever hired him.”

“And the dead birds that the police found in the trailer—they died in the crash?”

“Could be,” Gran says. “Or they might have been dead already, even before the accident. From what I know, a lot of birds die in smuggling operations, just from poor care and rough handling.”

“But that's—that's beyond cruel! How can anyone just let animals suffer and die like that?”

Gran looks sadly at me. “Exotic animal smugglers are hardened criminals, Zoe. They see the parrots as a money-making commodity, like corn or coffee beans, not as living creatures. It's a terrible thing. And it's why so many countries now regulate trade in exotic birds. But unfortunately, there are always people willing to break the law if there's enough money at stake.”

That's one piece of the puzzle that still doesn't quite fit. Obviously this whole underground bird trade is driven by dollars, but where does all that money come from? The answer slowly dawns on me:
the customer, the person at the end of the line who buys the parrot.
“Gran, who would buy an illegal bird?”

“Many people don't know the birds are smuggled when they buy them,” Gran points out. “That's why parrot organizations and veterinarians urge people to buy a parrot only from a reputable pet store or breeder. But some people are so eager to have an exotic bird that they don't do their research. Or if the price is right, they're willing to look the other way.”

Well, I guess now we know where our parrot flock came from. These really
are
wild birds, straight from the jungle. At least they'll have good survival instincts, even if this region is a totally strange environment to them.

“Can they track down the driver?” I ask Gran. “Maybe the police could convince him to turn in the smugglers in exchange for a light sentence.”

“Well, they're trying to track him down,” she says, “but the truck was a rental, so they may never find him.”

Since Mom's still on the phone, I ask Gran, “Can I use the computer? I want to see what's on the Internet about parrot smuggling.”

Gran checks her watch. “Mind if I look over your shoulder?”

Together we head into Gran's office. I key in
parrot smuggling
, and a long list of sites pops up. I click on one, and Gran and I read silently together.

As I read, I grow sadder—and angrier—by the minute. According to the Web site, more than 25,000 wild parrots are smuggled across the Texas border into the United States each year. The birds are sold in the U.S. for hundreds or even thousands of dollars at pet stores, flea markets, and exotic pet shows. Around 40 million dollars' worth of parrots are believed to be smuggled through Texas
each year
!

Gran lets out a low whistle. “You can see why some crooks think it's worth the risk.”

“And look at this,” I say, scrolling down. “It says that thousands and thousands of birds die from suffocation, starvation, or rough treatment while they're being smuggled in.” I turn to Gran. “I just can't stand the thought of all those poor birds suffering. There must be
something
we can do about this!”

Gran blinks, then gives me a sad, almost wistful smile.

“What?” I say, puzzled.

“Oh, you suddenly reminded me of another girl I used to know.”

“Somebody who used to work with you at the clinic?”

“Well, yes, actually.” Gran gets a misty expression. “Your mother.”

“I remind you of
Mom
?”

But before I can ask her about that, Mom herself charges into the office with a pad and pen in her hand, the cordless phone clutched between her ear and shoulder. “Ma, what's your fax number?”

Gran gestures at the fax machine sitting in a corner, buried under folders and books. “Sorry, Rose, it's broken. Hasn't worked in months.”

“Ma, how can you run a business without a fax?” Mom shakes her head in exasperation. “There must be a copy shop around here where you can fax it to,” she tells the caller. “I'll get a number and call you right back.” She clicks off the phone and starts to leave, then turns to me. “Zoe, I'm going to run into Ambler. The producer needs to fax me some script changes for next week's taping.” Then she adds hesitantly, “Want to come? We could stop for ice cream.”

Gran looks at me, and I squirm. I know I should go with Mom. Here's my chance to tell her how I really feel, like Gran said. The only problem is, I don't know how I really feel. So how can I tell Mom what I want, if I'm not even sure myself?

“I—I'm kind of busy right now, Mom. I'm, uh, doing some research on parrots. It's really important. But thanks anyway. Maybe we can, um, discuss our plans when you get back,” I finish lamely.

“OK, sounds good.” She throws me one of her chipper smiles and heads out the door.

Gran stands up and stretches. “Well, Zoe, patients start arriving in about ten minutes, so I'll be off too.” I can tell she's disappointed in me for not joining Mom.

Well, I can live with that. I mean, after everything I've just learned about smuggled parrots, their well-being somehow seems more important right now than my own problems. After all, it's a life-and-death matter for the parrots.

Turning to the computer, I go back to the search engine and key in
feral parrots
. “Feral” means an animal that's escaped and is living wild. I learned that when Maggie, Sunita, David, Brenna, and I discovered a huge pack of feral cats living in an abandoned boxcar last fall.

The first site I visit tells all about the Monk parakeets in Chicago. The people who are studying them make a big point of saying there's no evidence of the birds causing crop damage in the U.S. That's good to know. I'll have to tell Mr. Cowan.

Then I read about the parrots in San Francisco. Apparently there's not one but
two
flocks there. I hop from site to site with growing excitement. There are parrot flocks in Texas, in Rhode Island, in Florida, and even—my heart starts pounding—in Southern California! In fact, I stumble across a major Web site, the California Parrot Project, devoted to “researching parrots in the wilds of California's suburban jungles.” Who knew?!

The people working on the California Parrot Project seem to be mostly scientists and professional researchers. For years they've been studying the feral parrot flocks, which they call “naturalized,” so they know a lot about parrots living wild in city neighborhoods. My mind starts spinning with ideas. If I were living in Southern California, I could volunteer with this organization and help the wild parrots out there. And I could share what I learn with Maggie and Gran and everyone at Dr. Mac's Place, so they could help the parrots here in Ambler…

I shut down the computer and race downstairs, looking for Gran. Oops, she's busy with patients. Drat, I can't even tell Maggie or my friends—they're all at school. I'm bursting to talk to someone about all my parrot ideas! I even want to tell Mom, but she's not back yet. How about Mr. Cowan? I have to tell him about the sheriff's call anyway, and I know he'll be interested to hear what I've learned about parrots living wild in the U.S. Plus, we need to put out more fruit. I wonder if parrots like grapes? I grab some from the fridge and head out the back door.

“Pretty girl!”

I close the back door behind me quickly, before Socrates escapes, and step onto the deck. “E.T.!” I whisper excitedly. “Where've you been?”

He perches on the fence between our yard and Mr. Cowan's and cocks his head at me. I love his bright blue head and the way his beak is orange on the upper part and black on the lower. He's so cute! And smart, too—I can tell by the way he watches me. It's as if we are playing a game and he's daring me to try and catch him.

Dr. Timmons's words came back to me:
The odds of a hand-fed bird surviving for very long in the wild are slim…

Now's your chance, Zoe,
I tell myself.

I approach E.T. slowly, talking quietly. “Hello, E.T. Good boy. I won't hurt you…” I hold out my arm and show him the grapes in my hand. If he's used to people, maybe he'll fly to me, just as he used to fly to his owner. “Come on,” I whisper. “Please?”

But he doesn't come to me. Instead, he gives me a Bronx cheer—“Brwaak!”—then flutters his wings and swoops into Mr. Cowan's yard.

I hesitate a second, then unlatch the gate and follow him. As quietly as possible, I sneak across Mr. Cowan's yard. There's no sign of Mr. Cowan, but I'm afraid to call him or go and get him—that might scare E.T. away.

E.T. starts eating some nuts Mr. Cowan spread out on the railing of his deck.
Good, just stay right there, E.T., where I can reach you.
I realize I don't have a towel to wrap around him, the way Gran did the other day with Pickles. Maybe my sweatshirt will do. I ease it off over my head, then slowly, slowly move forward, one step at a time, barely daring to breathe. I'm so close…

How exactly did Gran capture Pickles? Now that I'm just a few feet from E.T., I realize catching him will not be as easy as Gran made it look. Heart pounding, I exhale slowly. E.T. cocks his head at me.

I freeze.

He ruffles his feathers, watching me warily. The moment is now—I've got to do something before he flies off. I lunge toward him, throwing my sweatshirt over him like a net.

Startled, E.T. struggles beneath the thick fabric, squawking in alarm. I try to pick up the shirt with the bird in it, but he struggles so much, it frightens me. He's much bigger and stronger than I thought—and I realize with a sinking feeling that it's not so easy to just grab a bird when you've never even held one before. I keep thinking of Gran's warning:
If you squeeze his chest too tightly you can suffocate him.
What if I grab him the wrong way?

Now E.T. is so frightened, he's screaming and shrieking and oh, my gosh, this is not turning out the way I wanted! But I've got to do something. I snatch him up, and his head pokes out. Just as I'm remembering what Dr. Timmons said about having powerful beaks, E.T. clamps his beak on my wrist. It hurts! Without meaning to, I gasp and drop the sweatshirt onto the deck, with E.T. still in it.

With ear-splitting shrieks, E.T. fights his way out from under the shirt and manages to crawl free. He beats his wings to escape, looking disoriented. He takes flight but suddenly veers sideways, smashes into the sliding glass door, and falls to the ground.

Chapter Eight

T
he small bird lies on Mr. Cowan's deck, not moving. I'm afraid to touch him, afraid I'll hurt him more.

I run back to our yard, shouting urgently, “Gran—help!” Can she hear me from the clinic? “Help!”

Suddenly Mom bolts onto our deck. “Zoe! Are you all right?”