The Burial

Something horrible happened. Taking the dogs out to pee early one morning I glanced towards our parrots cage, only to see him lying motionless, dead, with his neck broken.

For twelve years we had left the cage door open, so Jenga did not have to have a life confined behind bars. He was able to enjoy some freedom, and come in and out as he pleased. Occasionally escaping onto the ground, he would terrorize us all, as he ran, in attack mode, across the floor. We knew as a family that we should jump onto any available piece of furniture, to avoid conflict, as David was left in vain bravely trying to gently pick him back up.

 For twelve years Jenga rudely ruled our roost. Screeching when guests came for drinks, terrorizing small children and shouting, “Conraaaad” at the top of his small lungs, confusing Conrad, who would come sprinting, thinking we had called.

Jenga literally bit the hand that fed him, and every morning Marissa would moan about, “Dat bird” as she took him his breakfast.

Jenga was a pest but we loved him. He was our pest. Part of our family. Part of our story.

We will never know what killed Jenga, more than likely a wild cat or possibly a snake, but thank God, on the night he died our own cats lay sleeping in bed with us. Living with the culprit would have been hard.

We gave Jenga a proper funeral. We stood, as his family, around his tiny grave, held hands, shed tears, said a prayer and buried him. Another chapter of our island life closing. “Dat was my ‘usband” Marissa said as she lay a little bouquet of bougainvillea beside his grave stone.

His cage was finally shut and moved out of the spot light. But we could not bear to give it away.