Life Lessons Sometimes Come In Small, Quiet Doses

I’ve been bird-sitting for my daughter over the last week while she’s away, taking care of her small white female fifteen-year-old parakeet, Ruffles. I’ve cared for her off and on for many years, developing a truly personal relationship with the little creature. We created our own bird-talk conversations, unique to the two of us, in which she screams her version of “hello” when I appear to feed her and clean her cage. I gained a level of trust previously enjoyed only by my daughter: bending over and lowering her head to her breast so we could rub and scratch her head and ears.

For the past several days, she was in what we thought was a rare nesting cycle, not seen for several years: not eating, nervously pacing the floor of her cage, and sitting in one spot for long periods. Yesterday, a new behavior began, never seen before. She wedged the top of her head between the cage bars, inviting and seemingly relishing having her head rubbed, not only by me but also by my gentle caregiver, Tania, who was visiting at the time. That was unprecedented, as she generally fights against attempts by strangers to touch her. Something new was going on.

After covering her at bedtime last night, I went to bed and lay there thinking about what a lonely life Ruffles must have, caged, relatively isolated, and often just ignored, with few meaningful distractions. Much like too many people.

This morning, I chirped hello to her, as usual, when removing her night cover. No response. Her little white body lay on the floor, head pushed up between the bars, eyes closed peacefully, waiting for a touch that never came.