If you took the cunning and ferocity of the Jurassic Park velociraptors and condensed them down to the size of an animal that weighed less than two ounces, that was my Moonie Bird. Most animals will give a warning before biting, Moonie would bite as a warning. She was as destructive as a new puppy gifted with flight and pliers for a face. She damaged clothing, multiple library books, and household appliances. She recognized no authority but her own will.

I liked her more than I like most people. I have had many pets over the course of my life, but the grief I have felt for this horrible little animal over the last several months does not compare to anything I've felt before. I'm heartbroken that I'll never hear her growl at me again. I'll never exasperatingly yell, "Moonie!" as she screams and flies away.

At the end of her brief illness, when it was apparent that she wouldn't be bouncing back this time, she spent the day (as stubborn as ever), nestled in my shirt. She didn't know she was small. She refused to step up onto my finger like a parakeet, and would only step up onto my forearm like a macaw or large falcon. Nevertheless, the awe of having the absolute trust and affection of a tiny, semi-feral little animal really doesn't ever wear off.

Oscar put all of his stats into Charisma. He was the sort of extrovert who was determined to be friends with anyone, whether human, avian, or otherwise. He helped other birds come out of their shell, and he charmed humans who previously claimed to not like birds. He had a specific whistle that served as both greeting and contact call for his favorite humans. He was very protective of his mate, Moonie Bird, a Black-masked Lovebird who also passed about a year before Oscar.

He became well-known among my friends and colleagues during COVID lockdown as a permanent fixture on my shoulder during Zoom meetings.

Two of Oscar's greatest goals in life were cuddles and people food.