Stu died yesterday.



I woke up today to total silence. Ordinarily, Stu would sense when I woke up and increase the jumping around in his cage and calling.

I have never had a death affect me like this. I have cried myself into a migraine, a sore throat and nausea and I am typing through a stream of tears. Horace knows something's wrong and tries to be extra goofy and kissy, but for the moment I am inconsolable.
I am inconsolable not only because from the very beginning, when I found him alone on the street, he was fragility and the necessity to be taken care of personified, not only because from the first day, I didn't need an alarm clock because I sensed rather than heard his minute, hungry chirps and woke up to feed him at every hour of the night. Not only because I knew him so well I recognized exactly what every one of his many different songs meant and every little change in body language, and not only because he was with me all the time, jumping around on me, brightening my day, annoying the dogs, being his sweet and boisterous self.

I am inconsolable because it was my fault. Because in essence, I killed him.
It was a household accident and those around me say I'm not to blame, it could have happened to anybody. Right, but it didn't. It happened to me and only because I wasn't careful enough.
It doesn't matter whether that which killed him was a regular thing that was around a lot, I knew it what dangerous and no matter how often he did not choose to engage with it, I shouldn't have relied on that and just taken the time to put it away.
It was my responsibility to take care of this tiny creature, who was so small he easily fit into my lightly closed hand. I should have taken the precautions. And I failed him.
WHY did I use it that day? WHY did I not put it away? WHY did I take the dogs out just then and leave him alone? WHY WAS I NOT THERE TO HELP HIM?

It sounds like a tired old clichee, but I can't explain HOW MUCH I wish I could turn back time, how I wish I could at least hold him one last time, feel his breezy 13g body weight, his cool little feet, hear his affectionate litte sounds and smell his beautiful, warm, powdery scented feathers.
I want him to curl up in the nape of my neck after arranging himself a little nest in my hair just one more time, I want to see his silly little wings puffing out in that infantile "please feed me!" gesture he was actually too old for.

Because he wasn't just some bird.
The first reaction of everyone who met him was an involuntarily large smile when they saw him flying around. When he actually landed on them to check them out, it turned into intense child like wonder and awe, just by the contact to such a wondrous little creature. Wild birds are always all around us but never in close proximity, never with physical contact while the bird is healthy and approaching because he wants to. You could never catch Stu, you could only suggest he come to you. And when he did, even when he did it often, it was almost as though some fairy or little mythical creature had, just due to the rarity of such a precious moment. No one left unchanged by him. Everyone was suddenly silent, careful not to hurt him, amazed, wanting that moment of contact to last.

I visited his grave this morning and was relieved to find it undisturbed, with a dusting of frost.
When I was 13 and buried the baby bird I had brought up by hand, the next morning I went to find him dug up. Not to be eaten, but to be played with, with her body lying a few feet away from her head. I am relieved that this will probably not happen to Stu. And I know he's warm despite the frost because he's lying on his little faux fur bed I made him when he constantly fell asleep on the jacket prototypes and I couldn't find him because he was just a tiny little feathery ball curled up in a mountain of faux fur twenty times bigger than him. He loved his little bed and slept in it every night.

He was a fighter. He was the littlest creature but had the biggest personality. He was afraid of nothing and thought he was bigger than the dogs. He fought to stay alive when I found him as a baby, he fought after Horace once tried to carry him and broke his wing, he fought for that piece of tissue paper you had in your hand and for the cricket you gave him to eat.
The thought of his last battle and my stupid, horrible, unforgivable mistake and utter failure to help him are almost driving me mad. I have never cried when someone around me died because whether human or animal, they were always old. They had lived their lives (or chose to end them themselves) and it was their time. There is nothing wrong with death when it is timely, but he was only 1 and a half. His death was premature and when I found him, I also found the traces of his last fight. He fought to stay alive but just didn't make it. He needed my help and I wasn't there. And I am literally beating myself up over it, I took his little body and held him, I placed him down on the table and wailed and repeatedly slapped my own face, hard, because I had been so stupid, stupid, stupid.

While I was outside with the dogs and taking pictures of them, there was just one moment of intensely warm, lucid sunlight. You can call me crazy for grieving over a bird and you can call me crazy for what I'm about to say, but I know that wasn't just sunlight, it was Stu's ascension.

I debated whether to post the picture of him in his final bed. But I want to remind people of how precious life is. How every little being is precious and full of its own personality. I don't know how to say this without sounding, again, clicheed, but... life is so fleeting! And every being is special and worthy of life, of dignity and unconditional love. SO many animals are in need and helping them is a wonder in itself. Everyone can do something to help an animal, even if it's only one, and will be rewarded with such happiness. Because even if the pain I feel right now is excrutiating, I know it is directly proportionate to the joy I felt every day while he was there.
Of course I sometimes thought: "Oh, if I didn't have the animals, I'd have more money and could go traveling and such." but the worth of what I received from him (and the bullies and all animals I ever had) is immeasurable. And I am so grateful. And everyone could experience this if they just made a tiny little bit of room in their lives for a little creature in need.

I know intellectually that this pain will subside and that another animal will find me to be adopted. But Stu is irreplacable. And he is finally in the park outside my house where he always truly belonged.

Stu, you were such a rockstar. Show all the chickadees in heaven how to deal with those bully dogs. I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I love you.