You would have liked Walle, the baby. Trust me on this. Your lap would have been his bed. You could fumble in your words with him, and he would understand. He was patient.
You would have fallen more in love with Walle the adult. Although he followed Morris, he did not emulate his larger friend's aggressiveness with humans. He could make his own choices. You would have marveled at his velvet soft head, his strange drooping snood, his grandiose attempts at puffing himself up to show off.
Walle lived a year with us. He had been mutilated. He had been bred for the sole purpose of getting fat to be killed young. The farm's overcrowding increased his risk for disease. He struggled the time he was with us. Struggled to grow. Strained to breath with compromised lungs. Too much damage had been done. With one heaving breath, he died, watched over by those who cared and respected him deeply.
Trust me, you would have loved Walle. And in his perfect avian way, he would have loved you back.