Our cockatiel Carrots died last year of cancer.

Actually, he didn’t drop dead on his own but kept holding out until my daughter Stacey, the avian caretaker, bird watcher, lover of all feathered breeds, agreed to end his suffering, and carted him off to the vet.

The doctor gave him a shot, but the 86-gram featherweight wouldn’t close his eyes. He gave him a second, enough to down a cocker spaniel, but Carrots still struggled a few moments before finally giving way.

Yes, he was gone, his diseased-troubled soul beginning his long soulful journey to the end.

Remember how Lincoln’s body crossed the United States by train?
Well Carrots hipped-hopped across a few states by Fed-ex.

Get the comparison?

And while it was legal for Abe to lie in repose across state lines, it was illegal to send dead animals through package delivery systems.

A crime was committed.

And before you nail up the wanted posters, I’m privy to know who done it and how.

Stacey, now living in Virginia, bought a small cooler, filled it with dry ice, and slipped Carrots inside two Ziplock bags. When the clerk asked what was inside, she said, “shoes.”
Haven’t you seen those seen grey feathered ones at Nordstrom’s—the kind with two spots of orange on either side of the toe and a strip of yellow flowing down the center?

Though the Florida Highway Patrol might still be pondering the transgressions of Tiger, they never saw Carrots coming.

A day later the bird was on my doorstep in Orlando. Wearing gloves, I opened the box. He looked like an arrow—hard, straight, thin, and dead. I threw him in the freezer and shut the door. The next night while scrounging around for a chicken, the wrong bird slipped into my hands.

Yucch! I stuffed him back inside.

That weekend Stacey arrived, and the funeral got underway. Not understanding the native customs of cockatiels, we needed something simpler and quicker—Bloomies was running a sale for one day only. “Why not something Jewish?” I suggested.

I found a stained cloth napkin—the napkin to symbolize a shroud, the stain ‘cause I didn’t want to ruin anything good. The body covered, Stacey carried him into the backyard and placed him into a hole a few inches deep.

(She had asked my husband Bob to dig it at least two feet, but you get what you pay for).

Standing around the lifeless bird, I tried to think of something kind to say, but the truth kept tripping me up. How Carrots loved riding in the car, except when it got dark, and then he’d bite me on the neck, or how he nudged the birdseed onto the floor whenever I was sweeping the kitchen.

29’s a long life for a cockatiel.
And though I didn't say a word, I believe his hatred kept him alive for years.