The One Where We Try to Save a Parrot: The fire department earns community trust whenever we show up—especially for creatures great & small.​

The parrot was up a tall pine tree. I’m not sure how tall because I’m accustomed to measuring height by counting windows. We set up the aerial, dealt with the parrot’s mother (adopted—she was not also a parrot), who was upset that she couldn’t be the one to climb up there, and nodded thoughtfully when told to be slow. We sent the rookie up with gauntlet gloves, a helmet and the parrot’s backpack. It was not a backpack for the parrot to wear, but for the parrot to travel in. It had a plastic viewport so the parrot could see the world as the mother walked around outside. It was likely an unintentional form of psychological torture.

The parrot wasn’t as large as I’d hoped. In my experience, the smaller the bird, the more skittish. It was larger than a parakeet, but smaller than a macaw, favoring the parakeet side.

My visions of the creature hopping willingly onto the gauntleted rookie’s wrist had all but evaporated. But the owners were confident it would see the backpack as refuge from the swaying pine branch to which it had been clinging since its escape, and this confidence spread to the rest of us.

We were—all of us—deceived. The bird, of course, took flight.

It bolted from the tree and circled overhead, flight wobbly in the wind. It continued to circle, and seeing people near its new home in the tree, flew in a widening, crazed gyre, its altitude slowly decreasing. The domestic creature had little in the way of gas in its feathery fuselage. At last, it dropped out of sight, some four houses down on the opposite side of the street.

I wondered how soft the landing was. An out-of-control parrot might land anywhere, and Houston is the domain of many dogs and an award-winning feral cat population. A plump parrot with a heaving breast would prove a tempting squeak toy or snack. We had to pivot from aerial ops to ground search.

We moved with purpose down the street to the likely crash site. I was praying for unlocked gates and yards free of protective canines. The only thing more tempting to a dog than a downed birdcraft is a man in ripstop trousers. They appreciate the challenge.

As I closed in, a minivan whipped into a driveway ahead. The doors opened simultaneously, disgorging a family. In hindsight, they moved like a SWAT team on a raid, and I should have known I was looking at a family-deployed rescue team. But at the time, I attempted to hail them to gain vital information about access and Known Mammalian Hazards (NFIRS, Entry 37). They ignored me. A woman in house shoes passed me on the right. The rescue team had slipped past me.

I heard squawking. A kid from the minivan bolted from the front door. He was a herald announcing the successful bird recovery. The bird had found its own backyard.