Fowl Play in Phoenix
It
was a Monday evening, cold and wet, and the weekend seemed as distant as Mars. The
winter nights had grown chill, even in our desert state. Samantha and I sat
around the kitchen table and discussed how to bury the bird.
Samantha
was all for waiting until next weekend, and I for doing the deed tonight, but
as good roommates we engaged in debate. Lamplight illuminated the table and we
sat in its honey glow. The shoebox-turned-coffin rested awkwardly beside us.
Inside lay Pigwidgeon, the bird in question. He had been a cheerful parakeet in
life, and the house seemed strangely quiet without his chatter.
We acquired Pig in our first year of college.
A mascot for freedom and adulthood, his demise was tragic, though more for loss
of symbol than otherwise. Our haphazard care was not enough to sustain him, and
he dropped in a flame of blue-feathered glory one cold, winter weeknight.
Our
options were slim. The bird was in need of interment and we had hardly the time.
Between college classes and evening shifts our hours were numbered. Poor Pig
had picked an inconvenient time to die. Samantha and I came to the conclusion
that the send-off must be that very night. However, the hard ground and late
hour was proving to be problematic. It had rained the previous weekend, and the
air was chill. The burial must be quick and easy. We wallowed in our predicament
before happening upon a solution.
We
would cremate him.
How
difficult could it be anyway? We had a fire pit in the backyard and kindling to
spare. It was the perfect plan.
We
were momentarily deterred when we discovered that the stock of firewood was
damp from the rain, but we were not to be thwarted. Armed with a candle lighter
and the latest edition of cosmopolitan we went on with our work. Soon we had a
small fire smoldering beneath the stars. Samantha carried the cardboard coffin.
Pigwidgeon rolled about uncomfortably inside. When the flames seemed hot enough
we shook out our blue little bird into the heart of it and watched as his
feathers began to blaze.
We
both said a few words, and Samantha suggested we sing his favorite song. A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes is not
ordinary funeral accompaniment, but who were we to deny our pet his last rites?
Before us the fire sparked and hissed; the bird burned like some occult
offering. The flames died down and we went on with our night.
In
the days to follow Pig hardly crossed our minds. It wasn’t until the suggestion
was raised that our magazine fire may not have done the trick that we returned
once again to the fire pit. There Pig sat in the ash heap, wings folded close,
like a torpedo hurdling through congested waters. He was barely distinguishable
until we noticed the beak and a few moldering feathers still stubbornly hanging
on.
The
cremation of our pet was our college hubris, a fatal flaw still haunted by the
bones of a poorly interred bird.
