Fly Away

One evening last week, I took the small dogs out to the back yard as usual after work. New Old Dog wandered about in the grass, and Tiny Dog checked the crevices near the house for lizards (her favorite pastime). She began barking, and I went to find her right away -- she doesn't bark at the lizards, merely stalks them. Could it be a giant cockroach? (She barks at those.)  She was behind the grill. I took a look, and there on the ground, was a small green bird. It was dead.

The bird did not have any obvious injuries, nor was it decomposed; for an unknown reason, it was just deceased. It had muted green feathers ruffled by the slight breeze, and delicate feet. Alas, bird.

Tiny Dog was clearly perturbed by the bird. I couldn't bring myself to throw the bird's body into the trash; that seemed so wrong for such a delicate remnant of a fleeting life. I gently swept it up, took it out into the yard, and buried it under the same tree where I buried Ruth the fish. It was the least I could do.

Godspeed, small green bird.