Last Scratches

12 Years, Gone

I had twelve years. For some that may sound like a lot, but a parrot like my dearly departed Eutychus should live to be 25, give or take. Besides, how can that few ever possible be enough, let alone a lot? She was my baby. I raised her from when she still needed to be hand-fed. She was my first and only pet, although parrot folks might argue that the relationship tends to go the other way. I miss her so damn much.

Now, when I'm coming home and I step inside, the lack of her hits me almost physically. It did even when she was at the boarding facility before and after a vacation. More so when she was at the vet. Now the routine of our reunion is gone forever. No more whistles and squeaks when I say, "Hey, little bird! I'm home!". No more dancing green bird waiting to be taken out. No more little bird head rubbing against my cheek. No more satisfied noises as she settles in on her perch: me.

Now I'm greeted by silence and a covered, empty cage.

I was thinking that when a person dies and we're covered with grief we can imagine them encouraging us. "She'd want me to be strong and happy and move on," we think. It doesn't really work that way with pets. Perhaps if Eutychus really were capable of thinking such thoughts, they would be thought. But she wasn't and she definitely isn't.

What she would want is scratches. And maybe some apple. More than anything else, though, she would want her perch: me. She missed me every time I went away. I think, to be honest, that she would want me to miss her.

I do. I miss her so damn much.