I was introduced to nature early in life — which is a polite way of saying that small animals were not always safe around me.
As a child, I adored those tiny dyed chickens they used to sell — pink, blue, green little miracles of fluff. I would hold them, cuddle them, and love them intensely. They rarely survived my affection.
At my uncle’s farm, matters did not improve. I was about two or three years old and decided that a small bird tied to a string was, obviously, a dog. I pulled it along proudly. When I left the farm, the bird did not rise to bid me farewell.
I was a danger to poultry. And yet — my love for birds never diminished.
My father owned a beautiful singing bird. It was a “Tomeguin del Pinar”, a Cuban Bullfinch (Melopyrrha nigra). I remember the sound filling the house, my father had called it “TORITO” little Bull, because he was really aggressive to other males and even to those wives my father offered him and HE didn’t approve of. That bird survived mainly because it belonged to my father, not to me. I consider this a triumph.
By the age of ten or twelve, I had graduated to parakeets. Not one. Not two. Four. Then six. Why have moderation when one can have a flock? I also had two cats.
You already know how this story ends.
The cat eventually pushed the cage down. The parakeets flew out in a magnificent jailbreak. The cat, ironically, caught none of them. The birds escaped. The cats learned humility. I learned nothing.
But the true beginning of my avian destiny happened at my grandmother’s terrace.
One day, a tiny owl — a sijú platanero (Megascops asio in the US called Eastern Screech Owl) — landed on the low red-tiled wall. It twisted its head and looked at us. We looked at it. It looked at us again. It may or may not have said “sijuuu.” I cannot confirm the vocalization, but the silence was sacred.
It came again another day. My grandmother and I sat there like two astonished statues while this tiny sovereign of the night inspected us. No one died. No one escaped. It was a truce.
Later, when I became a biologist working at the Academy of Sciences, I encountered another owl — Tyto furcata, the barn owl.
They were killing them in the Capitolio. Why?
Because superstition is stronger than ecology. They thought the owls brought bad luck. Some were stuffed and sold to tourists. I protested. I cried. I raised hell. I conducted professional tantrums.
One day they brought a dying owl to my apartment to see if I could save it. I could not. I was a physiologist, not even an Ornithologist, and definitely not a miracle worker. The owl died. I mourned.
Then came Cayo Mono.
We traveled by military boat to study what was then called Sterna fuscata — the sooty tern. As we approached the island, thousands of birds rose into the air and darkened the sun. It was like arriving under a living storm cloud.
The birds nested on brutal coral rock — diente de perro — razor-sharp fossil skeletons of ancient reefs. The mothers did not flee. They spread their wings and screamed at us in outrage. “Come closer and I will end you.” They were magnificent.
We tried to rescue one with a broken wing. The outcome is blurred by time, but the attempt remains clear.
Then I moved to the United States. And decided, wisely, that what my life needed was more birds so I screened my terrace and installed parakeets. Not one. Not two. Fifteen or twenty. Three large cages. A parrot. A lovebird.
It was an aviary. It was chaos. It was joy. But eventually, I could not care for them all. The parakeets went to my boss. The parrot went to a neighbor. The lovebird died — a subject I will not address without legal counsel.
There were more parrots. Another lovebird. A woman of questionable character. A tragic ending. I will refrain from details.
And now? Now I preside over a balcony kingdom of sparrows and doves. They arrive daily. They quarrel. They scatter seed. They behave as if I am their staff. There’s a post already about my Michelin-star restaurant for birds. I am running a Michelin-star outdoor café for tiny plummed tyrants
After a lifetime of trying to possess birds, I have finally understood: They prefer to visit.
And perhaps that is the lesson. From dyed chickens to screaming terns, from owls in domes to sparrows at feeders — my life has been supervised by wings.
The birds survived me. Mostly.
And I am still looking up.
