We lose a Tiny Apiferian...but it leaves an epiphany

I found one of the Little Apiferians dead this morning. And now we are four. But what was most interesting to me, is that as I cradled his tiny body in my hands, I had an epiphany about my work with animals but also with elder people of late.


First I want to share how much joy these little birds have brought into our home. He and his Zebra Finch mates came to us when we first arrived in Maine, and they were already pretty old. The owner of them was losing his home, and somehow one of his connections thought of us. I had never had birds-and never really thought to. But I somehow thought immediately this was a good thing to do, and it was. The six finches, five males and one female, had their own custom cage hand built by someone. The female died about six months after coming to Apifera, but the males have thrived. I used to count them every night after the female died, worried they were so old and one by one they'd die. There are little bird houses in their house, and some tuck themselves in there and are hard to see. This morning I did a count and had to really look for the fifth bird, and finally found him at the bottom of the cage. Every morning when I get up, the morning routine is to let the dogs out first, but I greet the birds,

"Good morning, boys!"

"Chirp, chirp, chirp!"they greet me back.

If I speak to them, they chirp back. When we watch movies- their house is centrally located in the living room-they react to certain music. If we are angry at the news, a regular thing these days, we ask the boys how they feel, and they start chirping like mad! They are joyful little creatures and enjoy flying around and I give them sticks and natural objects in which they prep nests. One person-of course a complete stranger-scolded me for keeping them telling me they should be set free. Sorry, dumb idea. These were bred and born in captivity. I took them on to help them. If you want to boycott bird breeding, go somewhere else and shame them, not here.

The epiphany

So as I held the little bird in my hands this morning, I apologized for just having found him. He had clearly died at least a day or two before. I'd been swept up in life and had not counted the birds. I told him how joyful he made our home, how his size did not compare to the music and happiness he brought into our world. I prepared his burial setting, and gave him a beautiful cloak to warm him on his journey. He of course did not need it, but the ritual of showing him I cared was important to me. I let the other birds see his body one more time, and then I buried him in the garden. I marked the grave and will bury them all there when their time comes.

The thought came to me immediately, as I held him and talked to him-this is what I was not able to do with White Cloud. And of course, I was not family, or staff, or a nurse, or hired to do that, or legally able to do that. And that is why I can't put myself in those situations any more. I am not wired to work with any creature, be it human or animal, for weeks or years, care for them, do my best, commune on a two way road, and then not be allowed to even say goodbye.

After my experience with White Cloud, I have felt adrift in some ways, floating about wondering why I felt so...awkward. It is because I do not want to work in a system that shuts me out when I feel my work is needed most-at the end of a creature's life. I do not want to walk into one more place and find out someone I cared about and visited for over a year is gone, but nobody can talk about it.

I can't do it, it is opposite of what my soul wants me to do. I have a covenant with my animals, and I have a covenant with people I visit. My job, in my mind and heart, with he elder people is simple-listen tot hem, share story, share animal, do not detract, don't treat them like invalids or babies.

People are so afraid of death, or most people are afraid of it I think. I do not think necessarily that all older people are afraid of it. I am not afraid of it. I don't want to linger in a cement building without nature or things that give my life meaning, being dependent on strangers, or on a bureaucracy that might be keeping people from seeing me, or talking to me. When I'm old, I don't want to be told what to do, I want to be heard. I had a recent conversation with an elderly woman who I used to work with, she is in her 80's-still sharp and interested in life-and the care residence she was in was, in her words, treating her like a baby, not letting her go out on her own after she had fallen once. She did not want to use a walker, because it was hard to get in and out of bookstores, and most importantly, she volunteered at the animal shelter twice a month and it was cumbersome there. She wanted to use her cane, and she said to me, "I don't feel like they want to listen to me, they just tell me what I need. They care more about me falling, than me going out and living."

So, when I held this little creature, I took comfort in the extra years I could give him. I took comfort in preparing his little grave site. I took comfort knowing this is the work I want to do. I don't want to partake in detracting from others. I want to listen, not talk at, other people.

Death of a tiny Apiferian

I found her this morning, surrounded by the busy activity of the other finches.

She was the only female and perhaps what was the most bitter sweet part of it all–having to watch the dominant male land by her body, look up at me when he heard my voice, peck at her body lightly, look around...

"Is she really dead?" he asked.

I do think he was making sure she was dead. If I told you he seemed sad, I guess you could accuse me of anthropomorphizing. But I've watched that male finch with her and he was the top guy, he would often light by her, and chirp off the other males. He told her when the fresh food was put out, even though she knew, but he always vocalized things to her first.

I think what was also very sad for us is we had noticed the males and female starting to gather things for the little bird houses in the cage. We were delighted. Even though we knew these birds were getting on in years, and the former owner said she was not breeding any more, we wondered if they were preparing for young. We also wondered if it was the daylight getting longer that set them to trying to make nests.

Either way, a couple days ago we put some more twigs and sheep wool in the cage for them-it was so fun watching them gather and move items into the boxes. The female would jump in every now and then,

"I think this is looking good," she'd announce, perhaps.

Now I wonder if perhaps they knew she was dying and they were preparing a place for her.

When I took her out this morning, the dominant male seemed lost, silent. So I put her back in the cage while I went for chores. He pecked at her some, but it was more like grooming than pecking.

I know she had a pretty good life for a caged bird-as the cage is large and she was treated well. In her last weeks here she had classical music and company with our movie watching at night.

Little birds, when gone, leave big spaces. We were fond of the female as she was the only one. I had not even named her yet-which to her did not matter. I came back from chores and brought her to my studio. Perhaps it was all that is going on around us, the fear and anxiety that is visceral in the air-for many-and the fact I haven't really taken enough time to weep about it, but I sat there with that little tiny creature in my cupped hand, examining her tiny tail of speckled feathers, the bunny at my feet, and I cried quietly for her. But like the feral cat I held in my arms at the old farm, days after my father died almost nine years ago, I was crying for much more than the body I held. Like that feral cat, I had hardly gotten to know this creature either, but I do know she brought nothing but beauty into my world, with song, her little feathers, and her beauty in flight. Crying for her today was a gift she gave me. I think I needed that.

Today would have been Huck's 13th birthday, he died in August, suddenly to cancer. I like to think she flew to him, to let him smell my scent that he knew when he was on this realm. Perhaps that is nonsense, but I did imagine it as I held the bird today.

Meet the six new tiny Apiferians!

A video posted by Katherine Dunn / Apifera Farm (@katherinedunnapiferafarm) on Jan 11, 2017 at 2:01pm PST

I was minding my own business....and someone we have met recently contacted me to see if I might be able to take on some birds. It seems her friend was suddenly made homeless due to an entire serious of events, and had to give up his birds. She explained they came with their own vintage inspired cage.

I immediately researched Zebra Finches and sort of fell in love with the idea right away. And since I had left my old farm last May and had to rehome my flock and a few other animals that could not come with us, I know the feeling he might have had.

So yesterday our friend took us to his home he must leave-a very old 1870 manor house where his mother lived until her death at age 87. The house was empty now and he showed us around-what a place. I wish I could have bought it and given it back to him. Anyway, when I saw the bird cage, I swooned. It was custom made by a bird lover, and it shows, even having little bird houses in it.

So I gladly took their wings under my wing. They now reside in our living room, and when we sat down last night for our evening cocktail and conversation, they were right there partaking. They are fascinating to engage with. There are five males and a non breeding female and they do not like loud abrupt noises-sirens, shouts, loud trucks. Last night we were talking about some current news, and my voice grew a bit agitated, and they all started chattering! I apologized. So today, I have classical music on for them instead of NPR. Last night they slept soundly and were up with the daylight-perfect farmers.

I am so pleased to have them, and I just hope their former caretaker finds a place to land soon.