Sweet prince

I got Randy's text just minutes before he walked in the door: "Loro died."

The squawky Red-headed Mexican parrot who joined our family 3 years ago passed away today at the vet's, just as he was coming out of anesthesia. Loro needed his beak trimmed twice a year. Like most things Randy brings home, Loro was a castoff. He couldn't fly. He couldn't talk. His beak was deformed, and so were his feet. He'd been abandoned, and that's a quality Randy can never resist in a living being.

Loro somehow always knew the minute Randy's feet first touched the floor in the morning, and he could dependably tell us when Randy's car pulled up. Loro would squawk louder and louder and louder till Randy took him from his cage, set him on his shoulder, and walked around slightly hunched. Rather like a resigned pirate.

Loro was 32, a lucky bird who found a rescuer who adored him. And sadly, Randy has lost a creature who loved him back with abandon.

Grief is so raw, isn't it? And by the grace of God, we move on, never forgetting, always protecting a spot so tender, a fleeting memory will let loose a flash flood of tears.

Randy drove all the way from St. Paul to Minneapolis, holding his beloved bird close to him. At home, we sat and wept, held and stroked Loro. All the other animals--the two dogs and the cat--paid their last respects, too, sniffing, pushing their wet noses along Loro's feathers, and then snuggling next to Randy or climbing onto his lap.

In his death, Loro's beautiful green wings enfolded him as if he was wrapped in the arms of a feathered celestial being.

Good night, sweet prince. May flights of angels...