But I couldn't. I was distracted by Pigwidgeon's breathing, which was sad and sickly. I looked up, and realized he was tilting his head all the way back and up, like he couldn't get any air any other way. I went and caught him and gave him some medicine, but he was very weak, couldn't make much noise-- it wasn't that much worse than he's been, but it was worse.

Phoebe, in the meantime, was sitting in her cage, staring at him. Probably trying to figure out what was going on, why he looked so weird. Just sitting there, absolutely still, staring at him.

I'm glad that my shift got moved around, because by then, I might have been out the door, leaving the issue of the bird until I got home, and that would have been a long day with a bad scene at the end of it. Instead, I called the emergency vet, who was so sweet over the phone that I burst into tears as I gave my explanation.

Soon enough, I had the cage in my car and was driving to the vet. I sobbed the whole way there, because I knew that this was probably the end. Birds are fragile, and he hadn't been getting any better. At the same time, I knew I would rather have my bird die than have him go on suffering while I was unable to do anything to help or even comfort him.

I got to the vet, and didn't even bother to pretend I was anything other than a complete emotional mess. I stood there, holding my birdcage, gave them my name and my bird's name, and kept right on sobbing. It's nothing they haven't seen before, I'm sure-- and anyway, I couldn't stop.

The people there were extremely kind in exactly the right way-- they pretended they didn't notice the tears, and spoke very gently to the bird. The vet himself was so nice that I almost couldn't handle it. "I'm sorry you're so unhappy, little guy," he said, and promised to try and make him feel better.

They decided to keep him overnight, put him in an oxygen-rich environment, and give him injectible antibiotics. As the vet got ready to take Pidgie out of the exam room, I took a long look at my bird, and he looked back at me. His eyes were clear and friendly. I tried to be hopeful, but all the same, in my heart, I bid him a final farewell.

The same farewell I had said in the car. The same farewell I had said in the house. The same prayer that the end would come without too much suffering for this little creature that I loved.

Anyway. I'm sure you've figured out by now that he didn't make it. They called me the next morning and told me that he had died in the night.

They cremated him, along with some other animals, I guess. I didn't request a private cremation or the return of his body-- I hadn't known what to do with Cassie when she died, and anyway, I don't need ashes or anything else.

The emergency vet bill was almost $400. I don't begrudge a dime of it, of course-- it's comforting that I did all I could for him. (That's why I'm able to write about this, as opposed to when Cassie died, and I felt such a crushing guilt.) But $400 is a lot of money and will wipe out my savings account, and then some.

The bill itself is pretty upsetting. I spent quite some time today crying about the various items on there-- imagining what he went through. (Mostly injections and stuff.) I also cried when I was in the pet store shopping for Phoebe (retail therapy by proxy, I guess) and found a parakeet book that seemed to indicate I might have done something wrong in giving him the medicine-- not held him the right way, or something.

I guess if so, it was my vet's fault for not explaining it properly. But it doesn't make me feel any better that I somehow might have fucked up and given my bird pneumonia by accident. Anyway, the guilt is looming, but I am trying to stave it off.

I carried around Pigwidgeon's picture all day today, showing it to people at work and stuff. I know I'm pathetic. I didn't cry, though. I reminisced about the happy things-- his stupidity, his blind devotion to Cassie and Phoebe, and his uncanny Captain Ahab impression. Everyone was very nice about it. They all said he was cute, and nobody laughed at me.

I am bringing Phoebe home with me for the holidays, and then in the new year, I'll make a decision about another bird. When Cassie died, Pigwidgeon was as inconsolable as I was. He had this heartbroken squawk that I never heard from him before or after, and I couldn't bear it. Ergo, Phoebe.

Conversely, Phoebe seems to be doing okay without Pigwidgeon. She nibbles on my finger; she cheeps; she sticks her head in the bell; she seems fairly well adjusted. I think I might get another bird (I've been wanting a hand-fed bird for a while, regardless) but I wouldn't want to take it on vacation, so I'll definitely wait to decide.

If I do get a new bird, I'll probably have to get a girl. Which will be weird, because in my head, I'll have two girl birds, but in actual fact, it will be one girl bird and one boy bird. I don't know how that's going to go, but I guess I'll worry about that later.

Oh-- Phoebe just started making the same exact sound Pidgie use to make, only she's doing it as an imitation of him, not because she's sick herself. She better stop doing that, though. I think it's him for a second, then I get panicked that she's sick too, then I realize she's missing him. I don't need that triple whammy.

Anyway, I know this has been depressing, but I have been looking forward to writing it all day. Even if I'm laughed at by some for caring so much, I know there are others who understand how much my bird meant to me, and why it's important that I grieve. This time, the pain isn't crippling and silencing. I hope it's healing.

Pigwidgeon, wherever you are, or nowhere, I'm glad you're not sick anymore. I will never again have a bird with a name as cool as yours. I miss you.