Three Birds
I had three birds, two of them died while I had them and I released the other one. I have a very vague memory about the first bird. That was many years ago, when I was about 10 or 12 years old. I had two boys as my best friends. After school, we did almost everything together. One day, we caught a bird and either we killed it while trying to catch it or killed it after it was caught alive. With the dead bird on the ground, we stood there and all of a sudden senses of guilt rose in our hearts. The oldest boy came up with an idea. He found a small wooden box and laid the bird inside. We found a tree, dug a small hole, and buried the bird. He even made us bowed deep for three times to the bird.
We went back to home and the thing was quickly forgotten from my memory. I took the lives of many other insects. In the summer we caught dragon flies and most of them died in our hands. We caught cicadas in the fall and we even ate some of them. We derived much joy from these activities and the feeling of remorse never came to our minds.
I killed chickens regularly. Whenever we wanted to eat a chicken it was my job to do it. I didn’t have much affection to the chickens. Although I didn’t like doing it and was even intimidated, I did it anyway.
So being part of a gang that was responsible for killing a bird was nothing and the memory would have permanently erased if I didn’t kill a second bird.
That was many years ago from now and many years after I killed and buried the first bird. My kids were at the elementary school. Children of those ages want all kinds of pets. We raised fish, turtles, hamsters, and some insects, including ants. None of those activities were very successful and despite the initial ardent zeal of the children, it was always me and my wife’s responsibility to tend those pets. So a bird, a parakeet in particular, was one of those unsuccessful tries.
The little bird was colorful and lovely. We didn’t know if it was male or female because it was just a few weeks old. The girl who sold us the bird couldn’t tell. We bought everything needed to house and feed her. As usual, the kids were by her side all the time for couple of days. Then they lost their interest and like many times before, I was the one that took care of her.
I liked the bird and pitied her for not being able to have the freedom to fly. So despite the constant protests from my wife, I let her come out of the cage whenever possible. She was generally not that bad. She didn’t make too many drops. In the evening she flew back to her cage by herself. So after sometime I left the door of the cage open all the time and she would come back to me if I wanted her. I fed her in my hands most of the time. When I watched TV, she would sit on the top of my head or on my shoulder. When I walked around, she would follow me.
One day I was alone at home. I needed to find something in the pantry, there was a big plastic bottle that was blocking the item that I wanted to reach. I had something else in my hands but for some reason I didn’t put them down to reach for the item. I disturbed the bottle, it wobbled and went down to the floor, killing the bird below.
As usual, she followed me everywhere and that bottle finished her.
The bottled landed right on the head. She flipped her wings for a few seconds and died. During that time, I stood there and thought that she would survive. Then when she stopped moving, I realized she was dead.
Just before that moment, I somehow had an ominous feeling even before I touched the bottle, which was an unopened bottle of sauce and heavy. I dreaded that I could hurt the bird below. Just when I was trying to gently push the bird away with my foot, the bottle fell down.
I felt horrible. When my wife and the children came back I told them about what happened. They were regretful but not very sad. The boys had long lost interests to the bird. They seldom even looked at her. My wife felt sorry but didn’t say much. We went on with our business. I took the bird out and threw it in the garbage.
The next morning I got up and found a small paper box and a small piece of cloth. I took the bird out of the garbage, wrapped her with the cloth, and laid her in the box. Then I went to the backyard, dug a small pit by the trees and buried the bird there.
It was a Sunday morning and the weather was pleasant. I buried the bird and sat there for some time. In the previous night, the memory about the other bird came to my mind, which prompted me to have a simple ceremony for the dead bird.
The bird and the box probably have long disappeared in the soil. It would have not sustained long in the hot and humid South Florida weather. The trees have grown very tall over the years. Sometimes when I mow the lawn I still wonder if the remains of the bird would still be there if I dig for it. The images of the short episode still some times play vividly in my mind.
Shortly after that I went to the store and bought another parakeet. This time it was me who really wanted a bird. My wife thought it was unnecessary but didn’t object when I insisted. I fed the bird the same way and let her fly freely in the house. But this bird was different, she was never affinitive to me. Every time I fed her with my hands, she pecked me.
After about two weeks, on a weekend I took the cage out and left the door open. My wife yelled at me. But I didn’t listen. I left it outside in the backyard. After an hour, the cage was empty. The bird was gone.
Since then, we’ve never had another bird. Actually since then we’ve never raised another pet. The only exception was a small fish, which lived for about two weeks.
