I saw a man at the post office with a bird on his shoulder, and naturally I had to find out about it.
The bird was a cockatoo with snow white feathers named Cookie. The owner said Cookie was 18 years old, a mere juvenile in bird years. He spread the bird's unclipped wings and showed me the swath of pale yellow feathers underneath each wing, and the tiny peach colored feathers under it's top crest.

Cookie had once been sprayed with fire hoses when firemen unknowingly doused her while putting out a fire. Now the owner says he has to put a muzzle on Cookie to get her near water to bathe her. He says he lets Cookie outside to fly around but she never goes far.

Cookie rubbed her head on her owner's ear and absentmindedly picked at a button on his shirt as we talked.
I thought the bird and his owner fascinating, and called attention to them to a woman who was going in the post office. She showed no interest, and the man departed in his pickup with Cookie sitting on the steering wheel.

I wonder why Cookie never tries to fly away--I suppose it's the same with any creature who doesn't realize it's locked up and not living its normal life like nature intended it; and thus is content to live a life in a gilded cage.
susil