I am more erratic on my reflective writing to the blog than I imagined or intended. Such is the way, with all things - intentions versus actions, aspirations versus accomplishments, anticipated versus realized - all contrasts with which we are all familiar.
Today my immune system battles an infection. The front is my sinus cavities, and undoubtedly many other less obvious cellular spaces. I intake fluid diligently to help with the flushing of toxins or histimines, or whatever my body is striving to rid itself of.
The biological battle leaves my tired with irritated ear canals and runny eyes and nose. My scratchy throat soothed by the fluids, hot and cold, I am continually drinking.
As ever, I am amazed by human physicality - that the body assesses and responds so capably impresses even as the process is draining and uncomfortable.
I think I, and we as an American culture in general, live too comfortable of lives. We are lulled by comfort and complacency to disregard suffering, injustice and need. I feel overwhelmed and powerless to impact sometimes, but more often I turn to the comforts of my small life to escape the larger concerns. But, that is an undercurrent of reflection not to be fully tapped today. I am, in stead, emotionally drained by a personal loss.
I will recount it here in the following paragraphs, though I know it will seem miniscule, perhaps even absurd to many.
I had to bury my beloved parakeet, Birdie, today. He was pounced by my cat yesterday. I rescued him from the cats clutches immediately. Birdie could not have be captive more than 2 seconds, but it was long enough to do some unknown damage. Birdie seemed well following the pounce. He moved about easily, ate, drank water, even chirped and preened (to clean his wound.) I was hopeful he would recover, that the injury was minor. I watched him closely all evening.
Today, however, he appeared to be worse, and took a rapid turn. He was not moving to responding to music. He did not eat. He appeared to have trouble moving. Then, he fell from his perch and let me pick him up. I took this as a bad sign, for we kept a respectful distance at most times. He like to hear my voice, and would respond to my singing and talking. He would get excited when I came home, but he would not let me touch him (without biting me) or hold him.
Not long after this, as I frantically searched for a bird vet open on Sunday, Birdie died in my hand. I was talking to him, and he was chirruping back. Even at that moment I was hopeful he would be fine.
But then he stopped breathing, I could not longer feel his heart beat, and he stopped blinking. I could not believe, at first, that he was dead. I held him and watched him carefully.
Eventually I had to accept that he had died. I still held him and waited awhile, in case he was weak but not dead, or that his heart rate and respiration had become so shallow I could not feel it. But, no, Birdie had died, in my hand. I was glad to be holding him, but I felt so responsible. I had not protected him well enough. My vigilance was outdone by stealth and cunning of a cat who once had to live in the wilds of suburbia and fend for himself (no doubt his diet reliant on his ability to hunt).
Birdie was perched on a curtain a couple feet from his cage - he could fly back to his cage. I did not want to approach him because he might take flight and fly into the room where the cats were, a room he was not familiar with and had just flew from to return toward his cage.
I did not want to fluster or stress Birdie from his perch. Often before he had sat on curtain rods and window ledges, so I was not unduly concerned. I see now I was ... too trusting? naive? wrong?
I wanted Birdie to have access to flight - to be able to stretch his wings, exercise. He spent most of his time in his cage, which was closed anytime I was not around, and covered at night. If in the morning after uncovering the cage, I did not open it, Birdie would screech and chit at me until I opened the cage. He did not everyday fly about, only occasionally and briefly - always returning immediately to his cage.
So I have decided to be sad, but not guilty. Birdie enjoyed the open cage door. Birdie explored through flight and returned on his own to his domain, the cage filled with comforts and toys. He played with his beads and mirrors. He swung and rung his bell. He pulled and jangled his collection of keys. I think he was a happy Birdie.
I am sorry he is gone. I miss him. My other cat, the grey cat, will miss watching him from afar.
I wrapped him in a small shroud and buried him with love and grief. I must now allow myself to mourn. He may have been 'only' a bird to an observer, but was a companion to me. I relished his personality, I spent time interacting with him everyday, I cared for him and he brought my life joy and connection. Farewell Birdie.
Today my immune system battles an infection. The front is my sinus cavities, and undoubtedly many other less obvious cellular spaces. I intake fluid diligently to help with the flushing of toxins or histimines, or whatever my body is striving to rid itself of.
The biological battle leaves my tired with irritated ear canals and runny eyes and nose. My scratchy throat soothed by the fluids, hot and cold, I am continually drinking.
As ever, I am amazed by human physicality - that the body assesses and responds so capably impresses even as the process is draining and uncomfortable.
I think I, and we as an American culture in general, live too comfortable of lives. We are lulled by comfort and complacency to disregard suffering, injustice and need. I feel overwhelmed and powerless to impact sometimes, but more often I turn to the comforts of my small life to escape the larger concerns. But, that is an undercurrent of reflection not to be fully tapped today. I am, in stead, emotionally drained by a personal loss.
I will recount it here in the following paragraphs, though I know it will seem miniscule, perhaps even absurd to many.
I had to bury my beloved parakeet, Birdie, today. He was pounced by my cat yesterday. I rescued him from the cats clutches immediately. Birdie could not have be captive more than 2 seconds, but it was long enough to do some unknown damage. Birdie seemed well following the pounce. He moved about easily, ate, drank water, even chirped and preened (to clean his wound.) I was hopeful he would recover, that the injury was minor. I watched him closely all evening.
Today, however, he appeared to be worse, and took a rapid turn. He was not moving to responding to music. He did not eat. He appeared to have trouble moving. Then, he fell from his perch and let me pick him up. I took this as a bad sign, for we kept a respectful distance at most times. He like to hear my voice, and would respond to my singing and talking. He would get excited when I came home, but he would not let me touch him (without biting me) or hold him.
Not long after this, as I frantically searched for a bird vet open on Sunday, Birdie died in my hand. I was talking to him, and he was chirruping back. Even at that moment I was hopeful he would be fine.
But then he stopped breathing, I could not longer feel his heart beat, and he stopped blinking. I could not believe, at first, that he was dead. I held him and watched him carefully.
Eventually I had to accept that he had died. I still held him and waited awhile, in case he was weak but not dead, or that his heart rate and respiration had become so shallow I could not feel it. But, no, Birdie had died, in my hand. I was glad to be holding him, but I felt so responsible. I had not protected him well enough. My vigilance was outdone by stealth and cunning of a cat who once had to live in the wilds of suburbia and fend for himself (no doubt his diet reliant on his ability to hunt).
Birdie was perched on a curtain a couple feet from his cage - he could fly back to his cage. I did not want to approach him because he might take flight and fly into the room where the cats were, a room he was not familiar with and had just flew from to return toward his cage.
I did not want to fluster or stress Birdie from his perch. Often before he had sat on curtain rods and window ledges, so I was not unduly concerned. I see now I was ... too trusting? naive? wrong?
I wanted Birdie to have access to flight - to be able to stretch his wings, exercise. He spent most of his time in his cage, which was closed anytime I was not around, and covered at night. If in the morning after uncovering the cage, I did not open it, Birdie would screech and chit at me until I opened the cage. He did not everyday fly about, only occasionally and briefly - always returning immediately to his cage.
So I have decided to be sad, but not guilty. Birdie enjoyed the open cage door. Birdie explored through flight and returned on his own to his domain, the cage filled with comforts and toys. He played with his beads and mirrors. He swung and rung his bell. He pulled and jangled his collection of keys. I think he was a happy Birdie.
I am sorry he is gone. I miss him. My other cat, the grey cat, will miss watching him from afar.
I wrapped him in a small shroud and buried him with love and grief. I must now allow myself to mourn. He may have been 'only' a bird to an observer, but was a companion to me. I relished his personality, I spent time interacting with him everyday, I cared for him and he brought my life joy and connection. Farewell Birdie.
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