Lullaby of Birdland

Coco the Parrot habla Espanol.

Si. The bird.

Even Hispanic visitors probably can't tell his "hola" from his "adios," never mind those who barely survived high-school Spanish (including this reporter, who never learned to conjugate the verbs).

But our comprehension is not his concern. Coco is running off at the beak -- while taking a shower.

Spreading his lush, white-winged, yellow-streaked feathers in the oppressive heat, Coco turns his head up toward the spraying mister in his cage, revels in the refreshing spritz, then swings his body sideways till he's nearly prostrate in watery pleasure, rub-a-dub-dubbing and babbling in Spanish.

This bird is one cool cat -- and there are nearly 40 of the authentic variety strolling these grounds. That's a lot of feathery temptation for all those felines, but inter-species harmony seems to rule this roost.

"We've really got a little refuge here," says Henry Ricci, executive director of the Gilcrease Nature Sanctuary, where Coco & Co. kick back along a chipper, chirpy path nicknamed Aviary Avenue. "This is probably one of the largest displays in the West."

Brimming with winged majesty from cages to coops, Gilcrease not only can dazzle the eyes but frazzle the ears. Hear that? A Symphony in Squawk, isn't it?

They're a loud lot, understandable when you consider the combined squeal-and-screech power of 14 green-winged macaws, 17 umbrella cockatoos, three quackers, 62 cockatiels, 72 parakeets, 32 lovebirds (awwwww), 25 white peacocks, 48 blue peacocks, 30 finches, 70 doves, 200 quail, 143 ducks, 58 geese, 200 chickens, five ring-neck pheasants and a Eurasian black-throated jay.

That's a partial population.

"These birds, they bring happiness to you," says Gilcrease caretaker Jamee Tepoorten, cooing at a parrot pal, his claws clamped -- but gently -- to her forearm after she releases him from his enclosure for some wing-stretching R&R.

"This is Bo, he's my big showoff," she says, as she sets the hammy bird atop its cage to do a funky parrot strut, bobbin' and boppin' in a midtempo shimmy like Uma Thurman and John Travolta on the dance floor in "Pulp Fiction."

"They all have different personalities. I just love my job."

At the peacock display, the white wonders are stop-you-in-your-tracks breathtaking, especially as several fan out their tail feathers in their signature pose -- the male's way of asking the female, "Hey, doll-face, how about a date?" Add a splash of color and these peacocks could score gigs at NBC.

A midsize ostrich, its hindquarters waddling about a block behind its exquisite, elongated neck, is certainly elegant. But its jumbo-size counterpart is downright intimidating, especially when rising out of its repose to its full 7-foot-plus height to look like it could clobber all comers that dare enter its muddy pen.

"Most of the birds and animals that come here are from people who can no longer take care of them," Ricci says. "In all zoos today -- and I guess this is a zoo on a different level -- probably less than 2 percent comes out of the wild. Actually, we breed more wildlife species than are actually bred in the wild."

Though it's advisable to heed the sign along the walkway -- "Don't Put Anything (Including Fingers) in the Bird Cages" -- this is a highly hospitable place, with ducks and swans congregating in the pond (though two on-the-loose ducks, clearly landlubbers, waddle and peck around a chicken coop full of fowl).

An exhibit labeled "Cockatiel Haven" at first appears empty as you scan the cage, until startled by the sight of them lined up and clinging to the fence inches before your face, swaying casually like little bird bobbleheads. A pair of chatty yellow-nape amazons won't let anyone pass by without a crackling yelp. And in a nod to the everyday sights on city streets, pigeons -- their waste material the bane of car owners everywhere -- wander the grounds as merely more members of the gang.

Beyond the pond, the bird sanctuary opens up into an animal sanctuary, where the Symphony in Squawk segues into a cattle-call cacophony sung by miniature cows, donkeys and horses, plus pot-bellied pigs, goats, llamas and turtles.

Meanwhile, at the office -- a dozing cat doubling as a doorstop at the entrance -- 89-year-old owner Bill Gilcrease, in farmer-chic denim overalls, proves that age hasn't dimmed his ardor for animals. He's frail but fiercely devoted to these creatures, lovingly stroking a pair of Gambol quails in his hand while cupping his palm, with exceptional gentleness, around a baby button quail hatched the day before, its tiny dot of a head struggling to peek out above his finger.

"New generations of people need to know about all of this," he says.

That sentiment transcends language barriers, whether a bird habla Ingles or habla Espanol.

Contact reporter Steve Bornfeld at sbornfeld@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0256.