It has now been a few months, but it felt wrong that I haven't posted this here.
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Wednesday, shortly after 1am, we lost our boy, my little man, my buddy and bubba, Zephyr. He fought so hard the past few weeks, and had been fighting in secret, as birds do, for many months before, but not all battles can be won.
I don't know where else to speak of him, but many of you have known or met or known of him over the past several decades, and nearly all of you have only ever known me with him, so this is as good a place as any.
I never thought I would have to eulogize him, though I've had some horrible, horrible time to prepare. I've nevertheless struggled to find the words to describe just how much he has meant to me and how big a part of our lives he has been. Not from lack of words, but an inability to ever do him proper justice, and because it will make this all real and final.
It would take years to tell his story. More than the twenty-seven he had, in fact. But I can share at least some of it. I met Zephyr in November of 1997 while working at the recently-closed Birdie Boutique in Durham, NC. He was around three weeks old, a little black ball of fluff, all belly and feet. I read everything I could about Eclectus parrots, little as there was, and became enamored. I would visit every day until he was ready to come home in the Spring, handing him to every person who entered the store so that he would be well socialized. He forever maintained an incredible capacity to meet and connect with total strangers. An extremely rare trait for a person. let alone a bird. and a suitable counter to my avoidance. Every vet ever commented on how nice or easygoing or relaxed he was.
At that stage in my life, I was an utter trainwreck of anxiety and depression. But as Zephyr grew, he became a ray of light into my world. A beacon of constant, unquenchable joy and curiosity. From early on, he loved looking into holes and nooks and cracks and making inquisitive "hmm!" sounds. He would look through every bowl of treats, checking to see what mysterious yums it contained, making hmms and satisfied eating sounds until he was full and covered past his eyes. Always interested, always desiring to see and do and touch and wander. Holding him, he would strain against my hand, leaning in the direction he wanted me to take him to explore. Turn my back and he was running as fast as he could down the hall. Left alone, you would hear him exploring his cage, remarking on seeing a toy or a perch or having an idea for the millionth time as if it were a totally new discovery. On one of our last days, as he lost the energy to explore on his own, he had me take him all over the house so he could look out every window.
My daily joy was waking him up in the morning, opening his blinds and taking the cover off his cage while singing the good morning birdie song. He would stand tall, pinpoint his eyes, and make a loud KISSKISSKISS sound. "That's the one," I'd tell him, and would hand him his morning nut and banana chip. Embracing every new day, exactly like this, probably for the past decade.
I was fortunate to spend most of the past 5 years working at home with him in my office. Ever the distraction, sometimes welcome and sometimes not, but a constant in my day. I naturally became tuned to reach for him every hour or two to offer a snack or a hug. His absence now, I feel like clockwork.
He was brilliant, and knew "tricks," but they were really just things he already did that we put names to, just so we could interact more directly. He would tell us "up" when he wanted something, anything. He was naturally potty-trained. He hopped. He would fake fight. He could be lifted off the floor by his beak, swapping in his feet in a swift movement. He would give a kiss by putting his cheek up to our lips, cheek, or hand, but every now and then he would swap in an emphatic zerbert, and in a rare moment, a little 'pop.' He never did any of it for reward. Our delight was his goal. He would just turn his head and eagerly wait for our reactions. Sometimes he would beat us to the punch and start laughing himself. He had an unbelievable read of people, an incredible knack for comedic timing.
He never ceased to have new ideas. In the last 5 years or so, he took up making spitballs, of a sort. I'd walk up to him and a little paper wad would inevitably fall from his beak, soaked from his water bottle, joining the many already on the ground. He learned fairly recently that when I gave him a treat, he could instead grab my finger with his beak, pull it down to grab it with his foot, and force me to pick him up. He often wanted the hug more than the snack. Another recent favorite thing was to snuggle under a blanket, where we would go back and forth exaggerating each other's sounds. All things he came up with only into his twenties.
His first words were "honk" and "that's my nose," because as a baby he kept holding my nose with his beak, like a toddler with a pacifier. His cartoonish "durf" becoming his trademark sound, which you could always, 100% of the time, coax out of him by putting your hand over his head, for some forever strange and unknown reason. He developed hundreds or thousands of these mannerisms, phrases, sounds that over the years would become part of our daily repertoire. His "hmms" were joined by "what's that?" and "what's there?" and "what's in there?" From years of being right by my bed, his nightly beak crackles and grinding, signalling bedtime, could put me right to sleep, even today. If only.
But it was his sheer joy that I will carry with me most of all. He has been a constant reminder that the world is interesting and knowable, and even non-intimidating, if you welcome it. He held me tethered to a better, more tangible world, by being the very best of it. It is unmistakable the giant chasm he filled, as is the one he is leaving. He wasn't just my longest friend, he was instrumental in putting me together and making me who I am.
Losing Zephyr is not losing a pet. It's not losing a friend or even a family member. It's like losing a sense of humor. Or a perspective. A personality trait or a long- held belief. A light on the whole world, turning off.
I can certainly look back at things I would have done better, or more, with the knowledge of hindsight. His insistence for interaction, his plucking, and my brain placing him at the center of my most neurotic impulses were regular challenges for us all. But I'm unendingly thankful for the time we had. I'm sad both because he won't be able to explore the world that fascinated him any longer, and for our own future without him. Even at sixteen, I prepared to have him by my side my whole life, and I am so profoundly sad that it was cut this short. But I will have unceasing gratitude that the time we had together will always have been.
Be a source of joy for someone today. Not for him or for me or for us, but just because you are lucky enough to be a soul on this planet, capable of producing joy in others. And so you should.
Thanks for being mine, every day, Zephyr. Rest well, my boy.
