Goodbye Paco
It's been a year exactly since you died. A few months longer since you got sick.
That first picture is the last nice one I have with you. I had work that morning, so I set an early alarm so we could still have some quiet time before I left. I didn't know what would happen but I'm glad we had that.
I knew you were sick, and getting worse. The vet gave me some medicine to help you, but it wasn't doing much. Even though I had to catch you every day to give it to you, you still wanted to rest with me in the mornings. Even though there was a tumor the size of a ping pong ball under your ribs, you would fly to me from your cage. You stopped wanting to bend your head for too long, I think it put more pressure on your airway, but you'd still ask me to scritch you.
A few days before you died, I swear I heard you say, "I love you." It was the closest thing to words I ever heard you say.
I thought we'd have more time. I thought there would be a point where I would know, where you weren't happy anymore, and it would be time to say goodbye. And I'd bring you to the vet one last time, and it would be quiet, and peaceful. You'd just go to sleep.
I didn't want it to happen like it did. I didn't want you to be afraid and in pain. I hope it helped a little that I was with you. I don't know, if we'd made it to the emergency vet, if they could have saved you. Maybe something else would have set off a spasm, and it would have happened the same way. I'm still sorry.
Nineteen is a pretty good age for a cockatiel. I was starting to think about you dying. But you were always healthy, right up until you weren't. Plenty of birds live longer. I thought we'd have more time.
I think you knew that I loved you. I think you loved me, too. There's more that I wish I'd done differently. I wish I'd been better. I wish I hadn't make any mistakes. I hope you were happy, anyway. I think you were.
You were my boy. You'd ride on my shoulder and eat breakfast with me. I'd leave NPR on for you when I left for the day. I tried to teach you to whistle 'In the Hall of the Mountain King,' but I was never very consistent and you never got very good at it.
I've been holding your ashes and crying for the last half-hour. You wouldn't have liked that. Some people have very cute stories about their birds responding to distress, but you always just went, 'yeugh, why are you wet?' I didn't mind, though.
I miss you, sweet boy. I love you.