Last month, little orange Tommy the canary began wheezing. Tears filled my eyes as I watched him tumble from his perch only to flutter up and fall again. Next morning he lay on his back, eyes closed, feet in the air. All things eventually fail, from vast empires to little birds. I put his body in the freezer.
Tom and I bought the bird from a Seattle breeder seven years ago, after our last cat died. We named him Tommy, Tom’s childhood name. A round, cheerful little fellow like his namesake, he entertained us as only a bird can: Instead of a larynx, birds have a syrinx, a y-shaped vibrating structure that lets them make several sounds at once. Tommy sang a whole chorus of whistles, chimes, and high and low vibratos. During Tom’s last illness, he mysteriously stopped. A few months later, he sang again.
I wanted to bury Tommy in Central Park, where Tom and I loved to walk. Perhaps the heir to four hundred years of caged singers could fly free in an afterlife. I wandered the Rambles area until I saw it: A big hollow log with a round knot hole. Perfect. Two days later, I returned with Tommy and some fragrant sprigs of maroon coleus from my windowsill. For a minute, I stroked his soft orange feathers. Then I dropped him in the hole, followed by the coleus. Bye bye Tommy. Bon voyage.
For my friend Pearl Katz, author of Everyday Rituals.
