Petie died today.
He was a peach-faced lovebird who would have been 14 years old in two months. It was about 2:00 in the afternoon, and we had a door open to let the breeze in. A scrub jay called. Petie didn't answer. Normally, he would answer.
"Petie!" I yelled.
He didn't answer. That's odd.
"Petie! Shut up, you stupid bird!"
That always elicits a chirp, but not this time. Alarmed, I went to his cage. "Petie?"
I didn't see him sitting on one of his perches, or ringing his bell. I grabbed the stepladder so I could see the floor of his cage. Knowing what I would see, because lovebirds start dying of old age at 8 years, I forced myself to look on the floor of his cage. There he was, laying on the floor. I picked him up and he was cold. "Babe, Petie's dead!"
"No. You're joking"
"I wouldn't joke about that. He's dead."
I couldn't look at her. I had to keep my emotions in check. I stood on the stepladder, Petie's lifeless body in my hand, looking towards the cage with my back to the room, trying to control the emotional turmoil threatening to overwhelm me. I've lost pets before. Why am I taking this so hard? I have to get out of here before something breaks.
"I'm going to go bury him."
I went outside. It was starting to rain. Fitting. This is the first time Petie has ever been in the rain. I was glad to see there was a posthole digger leaning up against the garage, because I wasn't thinking too clearly and I'm not the best at putting my tools where I can find them. I looked around, thinking, "Where's a place that Petie would like?" I decided that a shade tree we call the "mushroom tree" was as good as anything else. We've got several pets buried there already. I started digging. While I was digging, I was thinking. About how I didn't get to say goodbye. About how I haven't let him out of his cage to fly around the house in a long time. About how he had been dead all day and I hadn't even noticed. About how he's just a tiny little bird and it feels like I've lost something important. Like a kid or something.
13 years ago, Virginia, my wife, wanted a parrot. But we couldn't afford one at the time. So we bought a lovebird. He was five months old. Virginia named him Petie. She spent a lot of time with him, teaching him that humans were friendly. She got bit 20 or 30 times before he decided she was his friend. And then he got to where I could handle him without being bitten. Then one day, he got mad at her for something trivial. After that, he decided he liked me instead. I didn't have to do anything.
He could speak. If you listened carefully, you could hear him clearly articulate the few words he knew. For the past several years, whenever he was fed, he'd say, "Thank you." He'd also occasionally say "thank you" when he wanted cereal. He could also say "cereal." He could say "stupid," and, of course, "Petie, " "Pete," and "pee-pee." There are other words he didn't use as frequently. My favorite was "thank you," because it was used in a conversation of sorts.
We'd have long talks:
Petie: "Screech!"
Me: "Shut up, you stupid bird!"
Petie: "Petie!"
Me: "Ok, ok, I'll feed you."
Petie: "Thank you."
Me: "I haven't fed you yet."
Petie: "Thank you."
Me: "You want some cereal too?"
Petie: "Thank you."
Me: "You're welcome."
Petie, I wish you were still alive. I wish I could have said goodbye. I'm going to miss you for a long time.