Our blue parakeet, Alfie, died last night. He was seven years old and a most splendiferous fellow. He had been ailing for a few weeks, but until recently was as spry as a teenager, clambering around the cage, hanging upside down to nibble on a collard leaf, singing his heart out. 

Alfie taught his young cage mate, Toby, everything he knew, and Toby reciprocated by preening his old friend and literally propping him up at the end. A model of devotion, which I’ve seen enough of in the animal world to know is the norm rather than the exception. 

In most ways I envy birds — their plumage, their songs and their flight — but in one way I don’t. They can never lie down. They must fly or stand until the end.

Alfie’s end came last night. Rest in peace, sweet birdie.