She Was Precious
The Martha Stewartish odor emanating from my freshly made cinnamon french toasts made the whole house smell christmasy. It lifted our morning gloom a bit, not completely in the manner that we hoped for, of course, but just enough for four of us to sit down to a fitting Saturday breakfast. Considering that two of my daughters are yet to get over from a nasty flu strain that had been making the rounds over our household these past two weeks, it offers some consolation that today, Saturday, is only the beginning of a long weekend, having Monday as an extra day for all to recover. This is also gonna be sweet for my other daughter who didn't join us for breakfast, who's just so dead set on making up for all the stress she's had to suffer this week (courtesy of a Lit professor who has a predilection for giving tortuous assignments) by sleeping to her heart's content.
No wonder that Timmy, the daughter still asleep, could not stop crying from home all the way to the train station yesterday morning. On top of a 6-page paper she had to finish overnight, we all woke up to find our pet parakeet, the girl of the pair I was talking about previously, so profusely bled where her right wing was bitten off, a dastardly act by the evil neighborhood cat. I would hate to describe the sight of her, but it was truly horrible and pitiful and tender. My husband gave her all the first aid care she needed and we all hoped for the best. Thankfully, hope came true when she died this morning. And as I sit here, I know I will never ever own a cat for a pet.
To care for daughters with fever required for me to have a washbasin, two little towels, ice cubes and steady hands at the ready, and lacking for sleep as I speak. And even if I can do with a few more winks but could not, I just like that it were me, and not the paracetamol, that caused both my daughters to get into their present, better state, which is a far cry from their chills and raging temperature of last night. Fever, which hardly ever gets to the point that kills you, is manageable but so easily reduces one to tears, like a baby, whether young or old. And it's probably nature's way of telling children who are in a hurry to grow up that they need Mama's care, still.
The neighborhood birds are perched on the fence now, and singing out for the seeds we regularly supply them. And then I remember our dead bird, I like to call her Precious now, and feel sad about what happened, specially when I had the thought to release her and her companion the other day, but didn't. Now, more than ever, I feel that, just like cats, I wouldn't want to own birds for pets, because they're so cruelly clipped off their wings in their cages, in a way. And so I think that it is time to set the other one free. Hopefully he'll just come around to be one of the neighborhood birds, that come in the morning for seeds. That shouldn't be a bad thing, for us or for him, but I'll surely miss the bird.
Filed Under: Love
No wonder that Timmy, the daughter still asleep, could not stop crying from home all the way to the train station yesterday morning. On top of a 6-page paper she had to finish overnight, we all woke up to find our pet parakeet, the girl of the pair I was talking about previously, so profusely bled where her right wing was bitten off, a dastardly act by the evil neighborhood cat. I would hate to describe the sight of her, but it was truly horrible and pitiful and tender. My husband gave her all the first aid care she needed and we all hoped for the best. Thankfully, hope came true when she died this morning. And as I sit here, I know I will never ever own a cat for a pet.
To care for daughters with fever required for me to have a washbasin, two little towels, ice cubes and steady hands at the ready, and lacking for sleep as I speak. And even if I can do with a few more winks but could not, I just like that it were me, and not the paracetamol, that caused both my daughters to get into their present, better state, which is a far cry from their chills and raging temperature of last night. Fever, which hardly ever gets to the point that kills you, is manageable but so easily reduces one to tears, like a baby, whether young or old. And it's probably nature's way of telling children who are in a hurry to grow up that they need Mama's care, still.
The neighborhood birds are perched on the fence now, and singing out for the seeds we regularly supply them. And then I remember our dead bird, I like to call her Precious now, and feel sad about what happened, specially when I had the thought to release her and her companion the other day, but didn't. Now, more than ever, I feel that, just like cats, I wouldn't want to own birds for pets, because they're so cruelly clipped off their wings in their cages, in a way. And so I think that it is time to set the other one free. Hopefully he'll just come around to be one of the neighborhood birds, that come in the morning for seeds. That shouldn't be a bad thing, for us or for him, but I'll surely miss the bird.
Filed Under: Love
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