Sinclair may be dying. I watch his health decline every day and every day I give him a piece of me. A little something to anchor him in this world, or for his journey to the next.
His gorgeous picture graces this website. That’s when he was full and vibrant. Now he’s the shell of the bird he once was. Sunken eyes, sharpened keel. He’s weak. He sleeps for hours, fluffed, lethargic. His toys no longer give him joy and, it seems, neither does life. He eats little and what he does eat, often returns to taunt me like a fucking ghost.
As his flock mate and protector of 26 years, it’s my duty, my responsibility, my blessing, to give him love and care. Now I’m his enemy who inflicts vet visits, medication, stress, distrust. In my heart I know this scenario. I’ve been here before. It’s a fucking boulder rolling down the hill and little old me’s trying to stop it. And I can’t. I know I can’t. But there’s some fragmented hope buried deep that if I just give a little more of me, money, resources, I can stop it, push it back.
Fuck hope. I’m so tired of having hope, seeing glimmer of possibility, only to have it splay my guts all over the pavement.
Even so, I will still fight for my little Grey man. I will tell him every day how much I love him. I will try to be strong but in the quiet hours when I feel the depth of my pain and sadness, I will convulse and the tears will flow. Every. Single. Day.