Ariosto (bonded with Boiardo)

Ariosto's the name, and if that strikes you as a bit grand for a bird, take it up with the Italians. They named a poet Ludovico Ariosto some centuries back, and I suppose someone thought I ought to carry on the tradition. Not that I'm composing much verse these days -- hard to do when your beak's occupied with preening, nibbling, or the occasional song.

You might've heard about the situation I came from. Seventeen of us, all dirty, all waiting, huddled in a place where the walls were cold, the light was scarce, and any warmth came only from pressing close to one another. But let's not dwell. I got out. We got out. I'm here now with Boiardo -- named, wouldn't you know, after another poet, one of those fellows who spent their days spinning tales about knights and their lovesick adventures. He wrote Orlando Innamorato, and my namesake picked up where he left off with Orlando Furioso. Seems fitting. Boiardo and I have that kind of relationship.

Our foster dad guesses we're about five years old, maybe hatched from the same breeder, possibly even the same clutch. What I do know is that Boiardo's feathers are a brilliant white -- maybe something called a white-faced lutino -- while mine are yellow, a more standard lutino, if you want to be technical. Not that it makes much difference to us. The human who could've told you for sure, our previous owner, has passed on, and she's taken our history with her.

We're still settling into this foster arrangement. I don't like hands much, don't like people too close, and I won't pretend otherwise. But right now, I'm sitting quietly on the playpen behind my foster dad as he types this out for me -- because, let's face it, a zygodactyl foot isn't exactly built for a keyboard. I've started eating better, though I'm still a little thin, so they're giving me some seed mix to go with the pellets and greens. And I like to whistle! Since landing in foster care, I have learned "Bro Hymn" -- this from the idiosyncratically aesthetic Senegal Parrot down the hall -- and I, of course, have my organic cockatiel songs with their inexact intonation and meter.

Boiardo and I, wherever we go, we go together. We don't ask much -- just a home where we can be safe, be with each other, and be treated with a little patience. If you don't know your Renaissance poets, that's fine. Just feed us well and let us have plenty of light. Mickaboo says we might warm up to people over the next few months, so if we sound a little daunting now, check back later. The Cockatiel Coordinator's got the details. Thanks for your time -- and remember, poets and parrots both need a place to call home.You can see more about me at https://mickaboo.org!