Most of us have lost a pet. It hurts. And with a bunch of parakeets in one’s care, it’s likely to be a recurring theme.
It’s different with birds, I guess. They’re not so touchy-feely as, say, a cat, or a dog. And from our high count of 10 birds, to five, I was sad each time we lost one. But I dealt with it, and did what needed to be done.
This time it’s different. This time, I’m a mess.
For a couple of weeks, there have been signs. And especially since Friday. I knew he would not much longer be with us. However, I had made a prior commitment, to my self, for my own peace of mind – to take a brief trip to Fire Island, to kick off my week-long staycation. I thought about canceling the trip. But with the uncertainty of these things, I decided that I must do what I must do, and he must do what he must do. I was prepared to come home to… you know.
But he had other ideas. He waited for me. He was not in a good way, when I got home. He was at the bottom of the shallow cage, the “summer room,” as I call it. But he was still very much alive, still moving around, albeit awkwardly, with not much motor control. Occasionally there would be a flapping of wings, and he’d wind up on the other side of the cage. But after each movement he became weaker and weaker.
This went on for 8 hours. I had gotten home at 4, and I went to bed at 12. By that time, his breathing was almost imperceptible. But each time I thought he was gone, several times, he’d suddenly move a bit, or I’d see the rhythmic movement from his shallow breathing, echoed at the tips of his wings.
I sang/chanted to him for the last two hours. I started out just talking to him. Then it became a tune. I mean – he’s a bird, right? They get that. I didn’t think I’d be doing it for two hours – two and a half, really – but it’s hard to stop, once you start.
My sweet green pea,
Little birdie;
My sweet green pea,
How I love you.
My sweet green pea,
Little birdie;
My sweet green pea,
I shall miss you.
It’s slow, something like 2 seconds per syllable. I guess I repeated it about a hundred times. Finally, I had to stop. I was just so tired. I went to sleep, in the living room. He was still breathing, barely, when I turned off the lights.
When I woke, there he was. Laid out, long and proud, near where I had last seen him, but not exactly there. He had moved again. He was laying on his side, perfectly straight, parallel to the bars that form the bottom of the cage, supporting him as if between the rungs of a stretcher. Perfectly groomed, as always. His eyes were open. But the life was gone.
I removed him from the cage and laid him on a white paper towel, as always. I pet him on his head, and showed the other birds that he was gone, as always. I wrapped him up like a burrito in the paper towel, and placed him into a paper bag, which I folded into a little A-frame, and taped it shut. As always.
The final flight – as always – is the rather unceremonious drop down the refuse chute. This time, I can’t do it. I sit here now, with the parcel next to me, trying to think of an alternative solution. I finally decide I will walk over to Chelsea Waterside Park, just a few blocks away. I will still have to put him in the bin over there, but at least he’ll be in a more peaceful setting.
They say there are between 50 billion and 430 billion birds on this planet. The wide range shows how difficult it is to actually count them. But one thing is certain. Today, there are between 49,999,999,999 and 429,999,999,999.
My sweet green pea, little birdie… my sweet green pea, I will miss you.