Pepina
March 10, 1996 - April 30, 2001



I lost one of my best friends yesterday -- she was just five years old. It's hard for someone who has never loved a pet to understand the depth of emotion and incredible grief you feel when you lose a little friend that was such a big part of your life for such a short time -- so I won't even try to explain it.

How is it possible that a fuzzy little green creature that was only four inches long and weighed only an ounce and a half could create such an impact on a person's life. But this little bird brought so much joy every day that she was with me.

On mornings when I didn't feel like getting out of bed, all I would have to do is make the slightest sound and she'd call me from the other room to uncover her so she could start her day of playing, eating, and sitting in the sunshine. And every night when I'd put her to bed, she'd call to me for several minutes, and I'd have to keep reassuring her that I was just in the next room.




Two things that made her the most happy and took up most of her day were eating and getting into trouble. She ate with such pleasure and in such quantity, I wondered how a bird so small could eat a quantity of food that appeared to be bigger than she was. She knew exactly which places in the house where she was not supposed to be. But she made sure that when she needed even the smallest amount of attention, she'd head directly for one of those "no-no-no" spots and then proceed to call me so I could find her there. As soon as I'd see her but before I could say anything, she'd fly back over to her favorite perch and do her happy dance. If I was distracted from her for even a short period of time, I'd hear her calling me and knew she'd be somewhere she shouldn't be.




I never knew where she was going to hide or where I'd find her. Any open cabinet, tissue box, cereal box, or tiny hiding space called to her. But her favorite spot to relax and doze at any time of day was my shoulder -- usually peeking out from under my hair and behind my ear, twittering so softly that I could barely hear her.

I spent most of last night packing up or throwing out her toys and other things -- I couldn't face seeing them the next morning. But what I didn't expect was that it was even harder seeing all those empty places where her little house, her food and water dishes, and her toys used to be. And the house is so quiet. It's still too soon for me to be used to not having her around. I still listen for her to call me, but when I walk into the room I am reminded by all her missing things that she's no longer there. The sound of her singing is fading from my memory, and all I have left of her are pictures and memories.

And I miss her.









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