Today in Horrible News: Baby Bird Jack Sparrow died yesterday afternoon. We had countless people tell us that we were nuts or that his death was inevitable. We are realists, so we believed them, but it was still pretty damn sad to discover that the little bird who had been chirping and getting bigger and actually growing feathers was suddenly dead, despite eating and moving and pooping all day. We wrapped Jack in some tissue and buried him in our backyard. In California, we are cautioned against burying pets in yards, for fear that the decomposing animal will seep into ground water or that some j-hole will dig it up later and confuse this
and call the police.
However, Baby Bird was quite small and I’m assuming his baby bird bones won’t last very long (and if I am an expert in anything, it is in bone biology), and therefore, he got a funeral. I used a small little ceramic sparrow I had kicking around the patio to mark his tiny grave. Bleeding heart.
The poor little beast was just starting to open his eyes and was responding to the sound of my husband’s voice. My husband is really upset, because he had plans to rehab the bird for weeks while I was gone on my trip. If I’m honest, I’m happy that Baby Bird died now, rather than in a week, when he would be bigger and fluffier and when my husband would be here by himself.
As it is, we gave him several more days than he would have had otherwise and I am content with that. I just don’t feel good about it.