Puck's Last Months

There was an indication that something might be wrong with Puck during the summer of 1993. It was then that his cere changed color rather rapidly from its normal blue to brown. The cere is the area above the beak which contains the nostrils. Male parakeets have a blue cere while females usually have a beige or brown cere. After a few days it reverted back to its original color, and then days later, it changed again. I called the avian veterinarian who had completed two observations for Guinness, and he said that it sounded like estrogen was surging through Puck’s body. Since there were no other signs of illness, he suggested that I simply adopt a watchful attitude for the time being. Everything seemed okay in the ensuing months other than Puck’s cere remaining brownish rather than its normal blue color.

I did not realize that I was noting Puck’s last new word on April 3^rd, 1994. My cumulative count was now 1,777 words, but the Guinness documentation had been officially concluded in January. Puck had been accepted as a record holder with 1,728 words at that time.

In early May, Puck was talking for only 10 or 15 minutes a day, even though he was active and eating well. On May 9^th and 10^th, I didn’t hear him utter a word. I took him to the veterinarian on May 11^th, where he was x-rayed and had a blood sample taken. The x-ray showed his bone structure to be extremely dense, when it should have been hollow. This density was due to the high levels of estrogen in his body, and the estrogen was probably due to a gonadal tumor. A small lump could be felt near his vent. This type of tumor was inoperable. The veterinarian consulted with two out-of-state authorities in avian medicine. The diagnosis was confirmed. Puck had only a short time left, perhaps a few weeks, perhaps a few months.

He was put on antibiotics in case he might have a secondary infection. They did seem to help a bit because he started talking again, even though only for a few minutes each day. One morning during this period, I asked him several times, “Pucky, why aren’t you talking?” While he stood on his perch door, I got right next to the cage and repeated my question. He replied, “We don’t wanna,” in a weak voice. I felt like crying.

Puck was having difficulty flying now, due to both the weight of his bones, and the imbalance caused by the tumor at the lower end of his body. Beginning in late June, he would chirp insistently when he wanted to be moved from his cage to the kitchen window, or to the perch in front of the dressing mirror. He seemed content pecking at the plastic penguin on the window sill, or just looking at his reflection in the mirror, for hours at a time. Then he would chirp loudly when he wanted to be carried back to his cage to eat. And so it went. Beginning around August 11^th, he no longer wanted to be taken to the dressing mirror.

About this time an acquaintance suggested that I bring Puck to a famous avian veterinarian in a neighboring town, just on the chance that something could be done by this exceptional doctor. I had little hope, but we went. Mark drove and I held Puck in his carrier at eye level, talking to him the entire time. He was very alert, looking all about, for this was only his third time on a freeway. Well, the veterinarian weighed him and found he was 51 grams. He had gained 20 grams in three months, all due to the tumor’s growth! Yes, he had a massive tumor in his abdominal cavity, and it was inoperable because it was attached to several vital organs. He might have one or two months left. I was then told that he might find it harder to breathe. He would either die from being unable to eat and evacuate, or from internal bleeding. If he stopped eating, I should “put him to sleep immediately.” I then broke down, wishing I had never come. This was more negative information than I needed to hear. At any rate, on the way home Puck remained alert and interested in his moving environment.

Puck’s daily journeys were very brief now - - eight feet, or so, to the kitchen window and back to the cage. Back and forth I carried him, several times a day. During this period I kept praying that I would awaken one morning to find that he had passed on during the night. I dreaded experiencing the situation, whereby Puck might have much pain if he continued to linger on, and/or whereby I might be forced “to put him under.” I really abhorred taking an active role in his passage.

The last words I heard Puck say were on August 23^rd when I came to his cage early in the morning, he said “Hi, Cami.” His voice was very weak. On the nights of the 23^rd and 24^th, he slept on the floor of his cage, rather than on one of his perches. I knew that the end was near because I had read that this was typical behavior for dying birds. The past few nights he had stood on his feeder, pecking at his food for two hours steadily. This was strange behavior, and I wondered if it signified agitation. He certainly wasn’t eating much for all of his pecking.

I, too, was becoming increasingly agitated. Although Puck didn’t seem to be in pain, he did appear very uncomfortable. On the morning of the 25^th, I awakened forlornly, sensing that he was still alive, and knowing that today I had to take the active role I so dreaded. I had not been able to sleep the previous night, and actually had felt ill. After I dragged myself to the cage that morning, I found him huddled on the door. He looked at me sadly. I knew that he knew.

I called the veterinarian and arranged to bring Puck immediately. Mark drove. Unfortunately, we had to wait for 30 minutes before the doctor was ready. Mark took Puck out of the carrier and placed him on my left shoulder. I was sobbing uncontrollably, while Puck nestled as close as possible against my neck. I put my forefinger under him, he hopped on, and I proceeded to kiss him repeatedly amidst my tears. I sent him the thoughts that I was ending his discomfort, that he would soon be free, that we were one and would always be together. He was very calm and unusually receptive to my kisses.

I later learned that this is often the case with dying pet birds. They will allow, and seemingly enjoy, physical contact that they had previously merely tolerated. When the doctor was ready, he turned Puck over in his hand, game him an injection in the chest, and Puck instantaneously closed his eyes and passed on. I was startled by the speed of his passage. The doctor asked if he could perform an autopsy, and I agreed to such, although I wanted the body returned for burial in my garden.

The doctor and his office assistants tried to comfort me as we left, but no one could provide solace. I had lost my dearly beloved magical friend! Mark stayed calm, but I knew that he was in emotional pain also. When we got home, I asked Mark to bring all Puck paraphernalia down into the garage immediately. I wanted nothing around to remind me of my loss. I cried for a couple of hours before I collapsed into sleep as an escape. It was only early afternoon.

When I awakened, in that transitional stage before full alertness, I felt Puck’s body on my left shoulder, his feathers touching my cheek. He spoke a sentence, a very personal and meaningful message for me. Imagination? Perhaps.

In the late afternoon I took a walk, and the atmosphere suggested the first signs of autumn. I thought that this was very appropriate, autumn being the time of harvest and transition to winter’s death. Although I had reaped a harvest of wonderful memories, my winter’s death would be life without Puck. Yes, my mental state was very somber indeed.