Goodbye, Pretty Bird.

When I was five, my parents brought home a new pet. It was a fluffy little lovebird with sharp chirps and an even sharper beak. She was the kind of bird you didn’t mess with, but kept gravitating towards because she was just so colourful. She was just a baby then and for whatever reason, she bonded with me. Lovebirds bond with one person in a household if they don’t have a member of their own species to bond with. Of all the people to choose from, this bird chose me.

This June, she would have made it to twenty years old. In the wild, lovebirds live to be around seven years old. Most of them live to be fifteen in captivity. I think part of me always believed she’d outlive all of us.

I would whistle a particular note and she would respond. She’d fluff up when I approached and tried to share her half-eaten food with me. She did her best to poop someplace else when I was holding her, but wouldn’t be shy about pooping on other people. I took that to mean she loved me enough not to defile me.

She could also sort change like nobody’s business. Throw down a pile of coins and soon enough, it will all be in its place.

The house isn’t quiet without her, thanks to two rambuncious dogs (these being the two she didn’t outlive, but there are two others she did), but it is so evident she’s missing. She was buried this morning under the apple tree in our backyard, her little body wrapped in pure white cheesecloth with a concrete print of my niece and nephew’s hands to serve as her grave marker.