CHAMPAIGN, Ill. — When the lights go out, the 18 shrieking cockatiels in the room get quiet. I aim my phone’s flashlight into a large cage where Philip Wiley, another of the six veterinary students participating in this advanced avian medicine professional development course, is poised to catch one of the birds. The light helps him locate his quarry, and he deftly encloses the bird in a small hand towel. He signals his success, and another student flips the lights back on as Philip hands the bird to me.
This morning, we are collecting samples for a research project that one of the residents in zoological medicine is conducting. I place the bird into a clear plastic shoebox and hand it to another student, Alli Yates. Each of these birds has been microchipped, and she scans the bird to confirm its identity and weighs it. Then we process five more birds using the same approach.
I wanted to take this course to get additional experience working with birds. This July, I will join a veterinary practice in Chicago where I will work with zoo companion-animal patients along with dogs and cats. My family had pet budgerigars — also known as common parakeets, or “budgies” — when I was growing up, but my first real experience caring for parrots came during my third year of veterinary school when I joined the care team for the flock of cockatiels kept at our college. This flock is known as “Harrison’s Cockatiel Flock,” in honor of Harrison’s Bird Foods, the 2025 sponsor of the flock.
I have spent quite a bit of time with these birds — cleaning, feeding and talking to them, misting them with the hose, offering enrichment like music and pieces of cardboard or other objects for them to interact with — and I am used to their sounds. These 18 birds live in five walk-in cages that take up most of a small room. The birds can be very loud when something excites them, but eventually they calm down.
They all have their personalities. Some of the birds we’re handling today live in the “Princes” cage and have a reputation as troublemakers. Unlike the birds in the “Kings,” “Queens,” “Princesses” and “Jokers” cages, the Princes are never afraid of me when I enter their enclosure to clean. They almost always try to escape!
After we place the six cockatiels in shoeboxes, Dr. Stephany Lewis, who leads the class, asks each of us to pair up with another student. One student will hold a bird while the other performs a series of procedures. Then we switch roles and repeat the process with a different bird, giving each person a turn.
Philip is my partner. To begin, we cover the shoebox with a small towel, then carefully remove the plastic lid from underneath. Philip puts his hand on the towel and grasps the bird gently by the neck, using the towel to wrap it up.
Birds’ windpipes are not like those of humans and other animals. They have a “complete” trachea, meaning you cannot cut off their airway when holding them by the neck. It is possible to choke them, however, if you put too much pressure on their chest.
Besides ensuring that the bird can breathe, Philip must control its head to make sure that neither of us get bit! Cockatiels can draw blood with their beaks. These birds are pretty cooperative, however, because they are a “teaching flock” kept for the purpose of training veterinary students to correctly handle birds.
I inject a light sedative into the bird’s pectoral muscle to make sure that our sample collection process is not too stressful for the bird.
This is not the first time I have given a bird an injection. I spent three weeks on rotation with the zoological medicine service in the Veterinary Teaching Hospital, where I helped with avian patients. A great piece of advice I got then was to anchor the hand that’s holding the syringe on my other hand to provide greater control when approaching these fragile patients. Cockatiels have tiny bodies, so we use tiny needles and tiny syringes. But even with tiny needles, it’s possible to cause damage by overshooting the muscle and poking too far into the bird’s body.
Once the sedative takes effect, I give the bird an overall examination, checking its eyes, ears, nose, beak and oral cavity. I palpate the crop, keel and coelom; assess its wings, feathers, legs, toes and uropygial gland, which secretes a waxy oil that the bird uses to keep its feathers waterproof during preening. I also assess its vent, where urine, feces and — if it’s female — eggs come out. I swab the bird’s mouth, collecting a sample for the research project.
Then, with guidance from Dr. Lewis, I carefully insert a needle into the bird’s right jugular vein and draw out 0.8 milliliters of blood, a procedure I have never done before. The vein is so tiny, and the bird’s skin is paper thin. It’s crazy how gentle I need to be to accomplish this task. I also must be extremely careful not to take more than 1% of the bird’s bodyweight in blood. I calculated that number in advance and draw only within that limit.
I’m so excited that the blood draw has gone smoothly. I cannot wait to start seeing avian patients as a veterinarian and teaching the technicians and others at my new clinic some of the skills I have learned.
Editor’s notes:
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