On The Loss Of A Pet

Hey there and welcome to Growing Pains.

So, I’ve been thinking about this post a lot and putting it off because I’m just not quite sure yet how to properly articulate the thoughts that have been crossing my mind. They’re all still a bit jumbled, but I want to write this post really badly, so I’m gonna do my best to untangle everything.

I’ve been meaning to cover the grief of losing a pet, but there’s some stupid idea in the back of my mind that people are suffering so much worse so I’m not allowed to be so crushed over losing something as small as a bird.

Just writing that out makes me feel guilty for having put off the grief of losing my beloved companion. But that’s exactly why I write: it helps me put things into perspective.

My first cockatiel, Chiquito

I dream about him often, and sometimes I wake up thinking he’s still alive. And I’m absolutely devastated when I’m brought back to reality. Sometimes bringing up my sadness over my bird in a therapy session just makes me feel silly and almost childish, like I should be over it by now. Somehow, all the other messes in my life that had been troubling me absolutely paled in comparison to the moment I was told my bird had passed away. In that instant, nothing else mattered. I’m not exaggerating when I say I have never cried harder in my life.

I think it’s wild how much power love can have over us, and when there’s nowhere else to pour that love into, it becomes almost painful. I think that’s just the nature of loss and grief.

My cockatiel, Chiquito, was everything to me. My family always called him my son, and that’s how it felt. He was my baby. I still whistle his little song without realizing it. It was his and only his; no other bird will ever recreate it

Chiquito was my reason for living most days. I knew all his little quirks: how he didn’t like his vegetables to be wet, the toys he liked, where he liked to be scratched, when he was asking me to come out or go into his cage. I got out of bed every morning for him. To take care of him. Many days, I stayed alive for him and him alone.

I have three new cockatiels now: Eggnog, Richard Parker, and Mikey. On The Adulting Journals Instagram page, I often joke that they are, respectively, a freelance writer, my blog editor, and my social media coordinator. I never intended to replace Chiquito, but I needed my routine back. I love taking care of others. It gives me purpose. But in getting to know these new birds, their little personalities and their own little quirks, I’ve realized something that’s both painful and special: I could get a thousand cockatiels, and I’d never get my Chiquito back.

It hurts because I’ll never cuddle Chiquito again, he’ll never eat from my hand again, or kiss me, or sing his little song. But it also means that I was lucky enough to experience the only Chiquito that exists. I was lucky enough to hear his little song enough times that I have it memorized. I was lucky enough to feel the warmth of his little feet on my shoulder. I was lucky enough to be his world.

Mourning a furry, feathery, or scaly friend is never easy. Animals leave a mark in our lives that is just impossible to replicate in any other way. I’ll always love Chiquito with all my heart. I’ve simply been introduced to another chapter in my life that involves three new cockatiels.

Goodbye Chiquito,

Alexandra