“Rocko! Get back here!” I heard Dad calling to our one-year-old cockatiel from the front porch. Dad whistled the special high-pitched tune he used to communicate with him. Normally Rocko whistled the song right back. Not this time. Rocko must have flown the coop! I thought, running to the porch.
“I was cleaning Rocko’s cage,” Dad said. “He got excited and flew out.”
I went into the yard and spied Rocko in a neighbor’s tree. Dad and I followed him from tree to tree, whistling. “He’s probably afraid it’s not us,” Dad said. Eventually we lost sight of Rocko’s gray and white feathers.
After driving around the neighborhood late into the night, we had to accept that Rocko was gone. I hoped angels flew with him, keeping him safe.
A week later a neighbor surprised us. “I just saw Rocko on the news,” she said. “During a segment on the police academy, he landed on a recruit’s hat!”
We raced over to the police academy. When we arrived Dad whistled his special song. Rocko perked his head up and whistled right back. What safer place for angels to have led him?
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