Identify & Acknowledge Your Anchor
I lost mine (Petrie) this year, and it's been really fucking hard.
I’ve been thinking about what to write here for six months. It’s been too much.
Six months ago, on May 18, 2024, Petrie died. In my arms. In peace.
My heart broke.
Petrie was my everything.
He was the handsomest boy in the world. I told him every single day.
Where do I start in telling the story of my very first and longest love? How do I begin to tell the story of the life of a fragile but fierce creature that was like a child to me? Why could I possibly think I can sum up 25 years together in the length of a blog post?
I’ve agonized over how to start this and what to include. A few weeks after he died, I wrote every single fact and memory of his life chronologically with as much detail as I could remember - I was so afraid to forget something. But that’s for me. A life meticulously detailed in 8,000 words doesn’t encapsulate the love we had to people who weren’t there to witness it. Other people don’t care about the minutiae.
I wasn’t sure I’d even write this chronologically, but I think I’ll try to show you how we grew up together, and how it defined my life.
I adopted Petrie in 1999 from a lady named Linda who had a bird rescue in NH. I was 11. I’d been keeping smaller birds (budgies and cockatiels) for five years already, and I called Linda to inquire about adopting a “big parrot” - I wanted a cockatoo. She introduced me to Petrie instead. This little green Quaker parrot.
He was two years old. I’m sure he was afraid - he’d been in a bad home situation before, and Linda had been working on taming him. But he didn’t run away from things he was afraid of. He ran at them - beak open, ready to bite, always squawking. He was fearless in that way. He wasn’t going to let you corner him. He’d take you out with him.
He was green and grey, with blue feathers in his wings and tail. He had a single little yellow feather between his eye and his beak that looked like a freckle.
I fell in love with him instantly.
I remember Linda told me what my future would be with him.
“Quaker parrots can live 20-30 years. You’re 11, he’s only 2. This is a lifetime commitment - of his whole life. Someday you’re going to want to go to college - not every college dorm will let you have a bird. You might have to find off-campus housing, or attend locally and live at home. Every person you date, whoever you marry someday, they’ll have to like him too. Someday you’ll be looking for apartments and a lot of landlords don’t like parrots. Quaker parrots are illegal in several states. You’ll never be able to move to a place like California. Parrots are messy, loud, and not everybody likes them. You’ll have to love him and prioritize him, even when nobody else does.”
I didn’t care about any of that. I’d figure it out. I knew my future was this bird.
Petrie taught me how to be a good bird mama, because I wasn’t always. I was an occasionally irresponsible pre-teen and teenager distracted by other birds and other pets and hobbies and friends and boys and college and I wasn’t always as conscientious or attentive as I should’ve been. I’m profoundly grateful for my growth, and his acceptance of my faults.
I got Kiwi a year after Petrie. The pet store in the mall was going out of business and I got him relatively cheap and thought he’d be a good mate for Petrie (assuming he was female, which I assumed for probably a decade before finding out he was male). That was not a good idea, at first.
They were fiercely competitive with each other, and constantly squawked for attention. It was enough to drive anyone crazy, and at the peak I had 9 birds (and miscellaneous other furry friends) in our family living room constantly making tons of noise. It was awful, and my whole family put up with it, thank goodness. (I also want to give a shoutout to every roommate, neighbor, partner, and anyone else who put up with my birds over the years.)
This dynamic lasted about 6 years.
In 2005, my mother and I moved out of our house into an apartment, and during the transition time my friend took care of Petrie & Kiwi while we were getting situated. When I was able to take Petrie & Kiwi back, a funny thing happened: they’d begun to get along. I think part of this was honestly being in an unfamiliar environment with my friend - they were each other’s familiar rock in a strange place.
So started the next chapter of my life with Petrie & Kiwi - the one where they became inseparable best friends/brothers/mates/whatever. It was amazing - and also so useful, because work and my love life got very busy, and I left them alone far too often. However, they had each other. (Here’s an embarrassing but cute video of us from 2008 - it’s awkward but the boys are charming).
In 2010, I decided to move to Los Angeles. I re-homed my other birds, but I wouldn’t part with Petrie & Kiwi.
Petrie & Kiwi, being Quaker Parrots, were, in fact, illegal in California.
I was concerned, because I didn’t want them confiscated and killed, but I was determined to bring them with me. So I flew with them into Las Vegas and drove them into California, avoiding the agricultural checkpoint along the way.
We moved into our home in Marina del Ray, 90 steps from the beach.
Petrie & Kiwi lived with me in my childhood home, and have lived in every home I’ve had since then. By the time I moved to my first apartment in Los Angeles in May 2010, we were on home #5 together. I lived in this house now for six years, which was home #17 for us.
Honestly, it was then, roughly a decade after I’d gotten them, that Petrie & Kiwi and I settled into the rhythm that would be the rest of our lives together.
I had no other birds or pets, we were freshly Californians, and the three of us became utterly inseparable. This was our most deeply bonding chapter.
In 2011, I decided to drive across the country for three months. I put all my belongings in storage, bought a new travel cage and small cage for Petrie & Kiwi, prepped my car, and the three of us went traveling together.
It was a wild summer, watching my dear friends get married, camping in the woods, driving over the continental divide at sunrise, falling out of love with a boyfriend - and the best part of it was those hours on the road with Petrie & Kiwi, singing at full volume to several CDs (Adele got a lot of play that trip, as did Coldplay, Fiona Apple, Florence & the Machine, the Beatles).
They were in the passenger seat in a little travel cage that I still have, and they handled the road so perfectly. They slept when they needed to sleep, they kept each other company, they kept me company. I talked and talked to them for hours - 12 hours from Las Vegas to Colorado Springs, 17 from Colorado Springs to Dubuque, then 9 to Akron and 12 to Boston, and then around New England and New York and the MidWest and back to Los Angeles… I crashed on people’s couches and their little cage was never more than a few feet from me.
People can’t believe I drove 10,000 miles back and forth around the country in a single summer by myself, all alone. I wasn’t alone. I had Petrie & Kiwi with me. Knowing that I was responsible for them made me feel safer. It always has.
They’ve been my constant. I’ve loved them more than any lover, any partner, maybe more than members of my blood family at times.
In January 2012, we moved to Las Vegas. In March, I got my own apartment. My first time living by myself - except I had two handsome little green roommates. Petrie & Kiwi.
They were amazingly self-sufficient. Our life together was pretty idyllic - I spent lots of time watching movies with them and snuggling them. I also worked a lot, and they were so perfectly content to be with each other when I was gone.
When I started dating Judd I’d be gone for a few days at a time and a friend would check on them. She said they were perfect angels with me, but complete terrors without me. This was a common report from countless roommates over the years, unfortunately.
They wanted to be left alone if it wasn’t me. They were perfectly content to be with me, but also so content with each other. Even when we watched movies, they didn’t snuggle with me, they snuggled with each other. We just liked being around each other.
It was around this time I realized they were so bonded to me, but also to each other, that I felt like I didn’t have a cuddle buddy. I thought the dynamic could be sweet if I brought in a new baby bird to love & train, while Petrie & Kiwi had each other.
I ended up getting another bird in 2012, and the dynamic actually worked really well - Petrie & Kiwi had each other to adore, and I got a new baby bird who adored me, but unfortunately he died in a freak accident barely 8 months later. It was traumatic and terrifying and I rarely but do still sometimes have nightmares of it. It really, really sucked.
We adjusted to just being the three of us again.
In July of 2013, I moved us back to Los Angeles. Soon later I got another bird to try to recreate that previous dynamic - and unfortunately he did not vibe with Petrie. As he hit puberty, I ended up finding him a mate, accidentally breeding them, and then rehoming the whole family. Petrie & Kiwi were my priority, over any other birds.
When I say they were my constant this is what I mean - I’ve had a total of twenty birds in my life and Petrie & Kiwi were there for almost all of it. They outlived and outlasted pretty much everybody. They were home to me.
My friends Merlin & Lis started referring to Petrie & Kiwi as “The Grampas” because they were old and a bit cantankerous but also so loveable.
In 2011, my friend Carol/Arachne adopted a disabled green cheek conure named Justice. I helped teach her about birds, and when she died in 2018, she left me Justice to take care of.
Petrie & Kiwi maintained a good dynamic with him - they respectfully avoided each other. Petrie & Kiwi had each other, Justice adored me, and we had a lovely dynamic.
I moved in with Judd in December of 2018, and honestly it was perfection. I had Petrie & Kiwi together, I had Justice to spend time with me, Judd got to see our love, and Judd developed respectful relationships with all of my birds through food bribes and respecting their space.
He doesn’t love birds like I love birds, but he always says “I love how much you love them.”
Kiwi suddenly started having seizures in early December of 2019. It terrified me. There was nothing the vet could do, besides anti-seizure meds that didn’t help.
I remember the vet complimenting me so much on the two of them - he loves Quakers, and he was so sad that they’re illegal in California, but admitted to me he had several patients that were Quakers. Since there were so few, he always remembers them. He was amazed at how bonded Petrie & Kiwi were, but also how bonded they each were with me. He’d rarely seen such a strong dynamic between an owner and bonded birds.
The evening of Christmas that year Kiwi had a stroke. I had to take him out of the cage from Petrie, because he couldn’t move around properly or grip the perch. I felt so bad separating them - they’d been inseparable for about 15 years at that point.
I felt bad in another way too.
Kiwi was an amazing bird, and I adored him, and I know I loved him plenty, but in that final month of his life I was suddenly so sorry that I’d mostly just loved him as an “and”.
Petrie was always and indisputably my favorite bird, and Kiwi was by association, but in Kiwi’s last month of life I suddenly wished I’d loved him more for being Kiwi, not just for being Petrie’s Kiwi. I know that sounds so silly, and I know that they were so happy and content with their dynamic, but I just felt so afraid that he’d always felt somehow like an “and” and not as if I’d loved him as a whole bird of his own.
I was so honored to spend Kiwi’s final week (from Christmas to New Years Day) cuddling up with him every single night, and every day hand feeding him and just taking care of him. Giving him all the individual love he did deserve. Petrie fussed over him when I let him, and it was honestly such a rewarding time in my life, to be with them in that space.
He died on New Year’s Day 2020, at 22 years old. He had a seizure in my arms as I was feeding him.
It was the worst feeling in the world, and also the most amazing honor, to hold his little body with tenderness and love as his life left it. Parrots are so small and delicate but when they’re alive they’re so full of life, their hearts beating well over 150 beats a minute (resting). When they die they become light and fragile and the intimacy of holding them in the moment is nearly unbearable.
I wept, Judd held me, and slowly I handled the practicalities, like bringing Petrie over to his body to acknowledge he was gone.
Afterwards, I wrapped Kiwi’s body, placed it in a small box, and stored it in my freezer. It remained there until the day Petrie died.
Kiwi was gone, and there was now a new dynamic -
I had Justice, who was 9 years old (with an average lifespan of about 25 years), and Petrie, who was 23 years old, who had just lost his partner of the last 15 years.
I was scared Petrie might die of a broken heart. Judd and I also joked that Petrie would live forever out of spite.
I am so grateful I had four more years with him.
Petrie and I grew into our new dynamic. He and Justice were respectful towards each other. I even thought to myself in a dorky sentimental way that Justice would live another decade, so Petrie could basically hand off his stewardship of my heart to Justice. I knew intellectually that Petrie could only live a handful more years. The oldest Quaker I’ve ever known of through direct contact was 34 years old, and most tend to die by their early 20s, so I was already grateful for the time I had with him.
Petrie seemed to seek out toys that could “cuddle” with him the way Kiwi used to. I found him more of them - feeling bad because I do travel a lot and I spent as much time with him as I could, but I couldn’t imagine how much he must have felt the loss of Kiwi.
Every morning I greeted him, every night as I put him to bed, I reminded him of how handsome he was. Every day, no matter how busy I was, if I was home, he got plenty of “scritches” and kisses.
One of the things I loved about him was that he loved to sleep in late, but he’d wake me if I hadn’t uncovered his cage by about 1pm. That was his line, and my wakeup call. But he loved to stay up late with me. He didn’t even mind if, in the middle of the night, as he was sleeping, I just had to check on him, and I’d open the cage cover, and in the darkness gently seek him on his favorite perch, and give him a loving little squeeze.
Sometimes he’d step up on me and I’d take him out and give him kisses - he would always purr. He purred. I miss his purr so fucking much sometimes I can’t stand it. I have videos of it. I listen to it but it’s not the same as the way it sounded mixed with his warmth and his heartbeat, and the way he’d tenderly preen my hair and my eyelashes without ever hurting me.
Some nights if I’d been in the other room for a long time and I just wanted to check on him (covered) before I went to sleep I’d just whisper “peekaboo” next to his cage and listen for him to “give me” “peekaboos” back. We’d whisper “peekaboo” repeatedly and then I’d tell him good night and that I loved him.
I once remarked to Judd that I loved that Petrie was always happy to step up at any hour for any reason (not every bird likes being woken up). Judd said to me that he thinks Petrie waits every day for the moment that I’ll do that. It’s what he lives for.
That fills me with joy to know this bird loved me as much as I loved him, but also broke my heart for every day that I’m traveling or busy and don’t get to be with him.
One morning in mid-March of 2022, I woke to the sound of a bird having a seizure. The flapping and thrashing of the body around the cage. The little noises of distress.
Intellectually, I was prepared. It must be Petrie. We lost Kiwi this way two years prior, it was going to be Petrie’s time.
I uncovered the cages. Petrie was fine. Petrie was absolutely fine. Justice was having a seizure. An aggressive one. A lasting one.
I caught him (and got my hands bit up in the process). I called an emergency vet.
I felt two emotions all jumbled up - relief that it’s not Petrie, but horror that it’s Justice. Justice was supposed to be my buddy when Petrie eventually passed away. I had intellectually prepared for that sequence of events. Not this one.
I spent 11 hours caring for Justice, brought him to an emergency vet for observation and care, and he died at the vet. It still breaks my heart that I wasn’t there with him in his final moments. I got to see his body before they took him for cremation (I got his ashes back a few weeks after the necropsy, which showed he had an aneurysm).
Suddenly I just had one bird. I’d never just had one bird. Even my “first” bird was a pair of birds. Now…
Petrie. Petrie outlived all my other birds. Petrie was there, Petrie was my sun and stars and my everything. I knew he couldn’t live forever.
I was terrified that I might not be there for him when he dies. That I might be traveling, or just not be home. That I’d miss it, that he’d be alone.
I brought Petrie to the vet just to make sure whatever killed Justice wasn’t contagious (thankfully no). I paid the big bucks for blood and fecal testing, and my vet told me that Petrie was in surprisingly good health for a 25 year old Quaker parrot, that he did have some elevated liver and cholesterol numbers but he should be healthy for a few more years. He was entering the twilight of his life, but he had some time still, and nothing emergent.
A few months later I ended up getting another bird to keep him social company - Peppercorn. Pepper is an Indian Ringneck, and when I tell you he’s nothing like any of my other birds before him - it’s true. He’s genuinely a unique weirdo in a long line of weirdos.
I got Pepper for a few reasons:
The breeder had contacted me because Pepper had some health issues (he’s fine now) and I’d posted in a group looking for birds with similar disabilities as Justice had. A little physical therapy and now Pepper’s totally physically normal.
I missed Kiwi’s talking, and Indian Ringnecks are notorious talkers.
I knew I’d be traveling a lot. I wanted to make sure that Petrie wouldn’t be alone.
They weren’t caged together, but their cages were “neighbors”. Petrie and Pepper did not end up being friends. However, Pepper did constantly talk… AT… Petrie.
The past two years have been hard - missing Kiwi, missing Justice, but I’ve had Petrie (and Pepper) and it’s been wonderful.
I do feel bad that Pepper came of age in Petrie’s shadow - he definitely saw how much affection Petrie and I have for each other and I hope he learned from that, though he’s not a cuddly bird like Petrie was.
On May 16th, I woke up to uncover my birds.
I did my daily whistle and talked to Pepper.
I reached into Petrie’s cage for a morning squeeze and kisses. I felt him weak, and trembling, and not okay. I could tell something was wrong. There’s a way his body was leaning, a lack of his usual strength. The fight within him had fled.
I wrapped him with a heating pad all day. Gave him food and water by hand.
When a bird is sick, heat is the best thing to help, so they can use their limited energy on fighting the illness, not trying to bring their body back to temperature.
I was able to bring Petrie into the vet on Friday (the next morning).
This is the vet who has known him. He said Petrie had been remarkably well taken care of, and at 27 had lived an incredibly long and healthy life, but this wasn’t a simple sickness - this was age. His whole body was shutting down. He was dying. He told me he probably had less than 48 hours left.
He offered to put him down for me.
I couldn’t handle the thought right then, I wanted to make sure Petrie was home, and safe and not scared when he passed. I asked if I could care for him over the weekend, and if he didn’t pass by Monday, we’d help him along so he could no longer be in pain.
The vet said that was a good idea and so sweet that I was willing to care for him like that, with the peace of home in mind.
So I spent another day getting to shower Petrie with love. Taking pictures and videos. Showing others his little yellow freckle.
We listened to this song on repeat.
It was the hardest thing to know these were our final hours, but yet I was so relieved to know when it was coming - that it wouldn’t happen while I was traveling or not home. That he could die safely in my arms.
He made it through the night on Friday, but Saturday morning he was vomiting, and it seemed extremely unpleasant and potentially painful. I didn’t want him to die choking on his vomit. Dehydrated and struggling to breathe.
I called the vet. I asked Judd to go with me. Of course.
The vet asked over the phone if I wanted to have him cremated, and his ashes returned - I said yes, but also that I had Kiwi’s body still in my freezer, and could I bring him too? The vet offered to cremate them together (for a single cost) and put them in the same urn. So they could be together in death.
We drove down to the vet. I held Petrie, crying the whole way there as Judd drove.
They administered the shot. They let me hold him as it slowly made its way through his body, to stop his heart. He didn’t fuss. I just held him as he slowly drifted out of consciousness.
I told him I loved him. I told him it’s ok to go. I nuzzled him and kissed him.
I listened to his heartbeat as it slowed, then stopped.
I said goodbye to my best friend of 25 years. My soul mate. My child.
I wept without any shame, in front of vet assistants and other patients.
I asked them for three of his flight feathers.
They gave me his leg band as well.
I think it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever gone through in my life.
I’m tremendously privileged for that to be the case, and I know that. It’s not like I haven’t had hard experiences in my life, but honestly having Petrie the whole time made every experience easier, every stress more manageable. He was my anchor.
I often thought of or described Petrie as fearless.
I’m not a very fearful person. I don’t have a lot of anxiety, I don’t spend much time worrying. I’m highly risk-tolerant, and I’m not particularly afraid of things like heights or flights or the dark or moving clear across the country with $600 to my name.
The few things I’m really scared of, I’m VERY scared of. Needles, blood draws, pregnancy, the drops on roller coasters… these are things that cause me to impulsively react with avoidance and sometimes literally pass out.
Six months ago, I got the bittersweet relief of letting go of two of my biggest fears.
That I would not be there when Petrie died.
That I would die before Petrie.
These might be self-explanatory, but I want to elaborate a bit:
Both of these came from an intense fear that Petrie would think I’d abandoned him (and an intense sense of responsibility for his well-being).
The first fear was more regularly a concern - I travel constantly and Petrie was getting old.
I was terrified that he’d die while I was out of town, and he’d think I left him and was never coming back. I wanted to be able to comfort him in his last moments. The fact that I was able to is one of the greatest honors of my life - to hold his little body as his life left it, and cradle him with love. To know that this relationship had to end, because he couldn’t live forever, I know that it ended in the best possible way it could. In a controlled environment, without pain, holding him and cuddling him and crying and telling him it was okay to let go. There was no better situation for us. I’m grateful for it.
The second fear was much more abstract, as I’m a relatively healthy woman in my 30s, and he was an elderly bird. However, that particular fear has actually gripped me most of our lives together, and was also rooted in the concern that I might leave my home and die in some unexpected way (car crash, random act of violence, whatever) and that I’d never come home, and he’d think I’d abandoned him. I’m grateful that didn’t happen, for obvious reasons.
That second fear, though much less practical on a daily basis, I realize in retrospect has been one of the most protective safeguards of my entire life.
(Photo: my contributions to The Temple at Burning Man this year)
I’ve had Petrie since I was 11 years old. I was 36 when he died (I just turned 37 last month). I got him when he was 2, he died at 27.
Petrie has been with me through everything in my life, as you’ve now read.
He was the sound I woke up to. His purrs (yes, parrots purr) always brought me peace and joy. His “peekaboos” were almost always the last thing I heard before I went to sleep. I listened to him rearranging his toys every single day.
When I wasn’t with him, he was still constantly present in my life. I regularly talked about him, checked him on my “baby cam” the last few years. He was always the reason I had to get home.
Basically, I’ve never traveled for longer than 14 days because I needed to get home to Petrie. I’ve had friends take care of my birds while I travel, but I really couldn’t stand to be away from him for more than a week usually. Ten days was generally my maximum. When I decided to travel for an entire summer, I set my car up with a travel cage for Petrie & Kiwi so I wouldn’t have to leave them.
Also, he was always the reason I made sure I got home.
I’ve lived a very exciting life and I’ve done things that other people might consider actively dangerous. I moved to Los Angeles will $600 to my name and briefly to Las Vegas with $100 to my name. I made both into successful endeavors, but I’ve slept in my car, tested the boundaries of potentially unsafe situations, and definitely been in some situations that could’ve been dangerous.
I’ve managed to get to almost 40 having some wild incredible adventures, without overdosing on drugs or being sexually assaulted, but there are definitely moments of my life where those things could’ve happened. I saw them happen to other women I knew. I saw other women lose control, get too drunk, take too many drugs (or be drugged), I was presented with plenty of opportunities where those things could’ve happened to me. There are moments in my past where I can identify where I could’ve made a different choice and might’ve ended up a victim of predatory people.
I would love to say I’m just way too smart for that to ever happen to me. However, I think back sometimes and my core self-preservation instinct has always been I have to get home to Petrie.
No matter how good the drugs were that were offered, I wouldn’t do them with people I didn’t trust intimately. No matter how much money was offered, I wouldn’t put myself in situations where I couldn’t be in control of what I was doing. No matter how good or fun or sexy a situation was, or even if I was feeling reckless or fearless - there was always a core knowledge about myself: I have a responsibility. I have to get home to Petrie.
I love myself, and I’ll always take care of myself, and I believe my instinct for self-preservation is decent on its own, but I know that when I might’ve taken more of a chance, I would be the wet blanket sometimes. “Sorry, no, I’m not getting in that car”, “Sorry, no, I don’t know what’s in that”. I’ve absolutely felt the pull of others saying “hey, it’s fine, just come with us…” and maybe it would’ve been fine but my priority was getting home to Petrie. Always.
Losing him has felt like losing an anchor to who I am. He knew me through everything. Sure, he didn’t understand everything that happened, but he was a witness to so much of me that no one else can ever know or see. He was my kite string.
One of the times I took LSD, in a safe environment with people I trusted, the dose was rather high and I had an experience where I felt all the things that defined me slip away (ego death). I felt like I was losing all my connections to who I was - the work I do, the people I know, my preferences, all the things that make me, me… the last thing to slip away was Petrie and I (mentally) held on to him so tightly while everything else left me. I had to tell myself “it’s ok, it’s just ego death in a trip, you’re not leaving him, you’ll be back”. I realized how much of a tether to myself he was. I defined myself by loving him.
Honestly, I think that even helped me through relationships. I’ve loved other people, sure, but having this unconditional source of love in Petrie meant I was never alone. If a partner wasn’t right for me, or didn’t treat me well, I didn’t have a second thought about moving on. I’ve never worried I wouldn’t be loved - no matter who ever tried to mistreat me. I knew what love was.
It’s been six months since he died. The first month I couldn’t stop crying if I stopped moving for even a moment. I distracted myself with lots of responsibilities. Things have gotten mildly easier as time has gone on. Rereading this piece just to edit it has waterfalls down my face again. I’ve given up on makeup today.
I’ve been taking care of and bonding with Pepper. He’s a handsome and hilarious companion, despite not liking being touched, and having strange personality quirks. His little chatter reminds me of Kiwi and I appreciate him so much.
Last month for my birthday, I got a new baby bird named Tango.
Tango is actually kind of amazing - he’s cuddly like Petrie was to me, but also absolutely fearless and strongly opinionated. His cage is where Petrie’s was, and Judd jokes regularly that Petrie’s spirit inhabits him. I think this dynamic with these two birds is good for me.
Life goes on.
Yet, I feel untethered to life in moments. I have no suicidal thoughts and plenty to live for, I’m not in any danger in that way - yet I feel like a fire inside me has gone out. A purpose left me. There’s a hole I will never fill. It catches me at moments like a gut punch, leaving me struggling to breathe and blinded by tears.
Pepper & Tango help to soothe it. They really do.
So does Judd.
I imagine when I have children, that will too.
I know that grief is just love with no place to go.
I have so much love to give, and I try to channel it into these other beings I love so much. I keep thinking of Petrie and thinking I had so much more to give you.
I just miss him so much. He was my soulmate. My child. My best friend. My heart outside of my body. I miss Kiwi, and Justice too.
I miss all the birds (and other pets) I’ve had and loved. I didn’t name them all above, to focus on Petrie’s life. I’ll name them here. I’ve had 20 birds in my life. Twinkle, Clover, Shamrock, Snowflake, Jay, Angel, Saffron, Sunny, Misty, Petrie, Kiwi, Jewel, Ender, Cricket, Pearl, Justice, Friday, Sunday, Pepper and Tango.
Petrie made me a better mother to all of them. He made me a better person, he taught me so much about love. And I’m fairly certain he saved my life on at least one occasion, because I always had to get home to him.
It’s so hard to feel home without him.
I do my best.
I couldn’t even write this without using an entire box of tissues. I needed to get it out though - I was so afraid I’d let the time slip by and somehow fail to sufficiently bear witness to this remarkable creature and the love that we had. I know I post on Facebook about him regularly, but I needed to give him more. I still feel like I’m missing so much from this, nearly 6,000 words later.
Slowly I’ll begin to identify and acknowledge my other anchors.
It’s just hard. It’s so profoundly hard.
I always end each of my posts with my bird logo.
This one gets a different bird in flight.
Petrie
April 10, 1997 - May 18, 2024
